FoxHareTiger 2: Home Again
by CSI Clue
Summary: A sequel to The Fox, The Hare and The Tiger. Arthur, Ariadne and Eames are rescued; now come the difficult parts of making a life together.
1. Chapter 1

The trip across the border is almost anti-climactic. At the crossing point, the Finnish guards examine the passports, examine their faces and wave them on with disinterested nods. Koskinen and his partner, Laako herd them along, and before anyone makes a fuss about Tyro, there's a quick consultation, and the dog now has a permit as well.

Arthur is dazed. There's a van in the parking lot; there are other _people_ and he feels acutely self-conscious in his grimy clothing. Ariadne huddles near him, and Eames is flanking her, looking around warily.

"Where are we going, loves?" Eames asks, and Arthur looks at Koskinen.

"Private suite at the Kamp," the man replies. "Your Mr. Charles is willing to foot quite a bill. It will be about three hours or so to get there, so you may want to rest."

Arthur shoots a glance at Eames and without speaking a word, they're in agreement; Ariadne can sleep, they'll keep watch.

Koskinen's estimate is good, and the long drive goes on and on. Arthur finds himself drowsing at times, unable to take in the passing endless scenery as it rolls by the windows, taking the daylight with it. Neither he nor Eames talk much to their rescuers, and although that probably seems rude, neither Koskinen nor Doctor Laako seem to mind. They hand over a pair of cell phones, and Arthur takes the time to reactivate his former life in a matter of three calls.

That alternately exhilarates and depresses him.

Still, there will be money available when they get to the hotel, and that will mean a shopping trip. Arthur is looking forward to that, and casts a speculative eye towards the other two, wondering if they're willing to let him drag them along. Arthur suspects Ariadne won't object too much, and Eames would agree just to pick the most obnoxious items possible and make him wince.

Arthur finds himself smiling at that thought. He looks out at the cars passing on the snowy lanes, and concentrates on staying awake. Eames is making little worried sounds and when Arthur glances over for assurance, the Englishman sighs.

"Not getting through to certain people who _should_ be picking up. I'll know more when I get my hands on a laptop."

Arthur nods, and starts to reach over to cup the back of Eames' neck, but he's acutely aware of the two strangers in the front seats of the van, so he lets his hand drop. Eames catches the aborted action and his mouth tightens, but he says nothing, and the two of them look at each other uneasily.

The suite is elegant, in a slightly stodgy way. The Kamp is one of the older hotels, and the décor reflects that, with polished wood fixtures and cream beige carpeting. Ariadne sets Tyro down and seems dazed until she reaches the doorway of the huge bathroom.

Arthur suspects she won't be coming out of the tub for hours, not that he blames her. Eames wanders in and drops himself heavily on one of the sofas in the living room, seemingly ready to take a nap. Koskinen hands over a computer case to Arthur.

"Free Wi-fi of course, and a corporate American Express for your immediate needs. Mr. Charles' flight is coming in around six AM and we'll be in the suite across the hall," he tells Arthur quietly. "Is there anything you need for the moment?"

"Does this place have . . . a tailor?" Arthur finds himself asking, and it seems to amuse the two rescuers.

The Kamp most certainly does, and within the hour, Arthur has had his man in Paris emailing his measurements and preferences to the shop downstairs, as well as sending an overnight express package of in-shop wear for him.

Without telling Eames, Arthur orders up some casual wear for him as well, making a fairly good estimate of the sizes needed, and when asked about the colors, stresses in all caps that they should be solid, neutral colors ONLY.

When Arthur looks up, Eames is starting to pace in the suite.

"Done with it, pet? Not that I'm rushing you, but . . ." Eames murmurs in a preoccupied tone. Arthur signs off and gets up from the desk. Eames comes over, and for a moment they're just at the edges of their old, early definition of personal space.

And because Arthur still feels the sting of that awkwardness from in the van, he doesn't move away.

Eames sighs gratefully, and lightly slips an arm around him in a half-hug. "S'all right. We're alone now," he murmurs.

Arthur says nothing, but leans into Eames and relaxes.

000ooo000ooo000

The sweet bliss of hot water transcends time, and Ariadne is lost in the decadent pleasure of scrubbing up. So far she's emptied the tub once and refilled it, and is now on the verge of total prunification, but oh it's so, so good.

Reluctantly though, Ariadne realizes she must get out, and does, pulling one of the thick and beautiful bath sheets around herself. The softness of the plush damned near makes her weep. She takes a peek at her reflection in the mirror, and gives herself a little nod, pleased that she's starting to look . . . normal.

It takes a while to comb through her hair, but the conditioner helps, and Ariadne is startled at how long it is. She wrings the last of the water out and slips on one of the hotel bathrobes. It drags on the floor a little as she steps out and into the living room area.

Arthur rises up and gives her a smile. "I hope you left some hot water for the rest of us."

"No promises," Ariadne mumbles, feeling a little guilty. He laughs and kisses her gently before slipping past her and into the bathroom. She wanders over to Eames and kisses the back of his head. "Doing okay?"

"Trying to," he mutters to her gently. "Looks like things have gotten busy while we've been gone. Look—six other Extractors have been reported as disappeared, although that could be of their own choosing in a few cases. I'm more worried about not being able to reach family."

Ariadne reaches to rub his shoulders; they're tight and hard, and she's not sure if she can squeeze firmly enough to get him to relax.

"You'll reach them," she whispers, "I know you will."

Eames gives her a little grunt of thanks, and sighs as Ariadne works her fingers along his tense muscles. He closes the laptop and sits there, savoring her touch for a while. Tyro shifts under the desk.

Ariadne hears humming coming from the bathroom, and realizes that Arthur is done with his shower. She stops rubbing Eames' shoulders and gives him a kiss to the back of his shaggy head, then moves to knock on the bathroom door. Arthur calls that it's open, and when she pushes the door, lovely clouds of steam billow out.

Arthur is shaving. The sight of his half fuzzy, half clean face is startling, particularly when he grins. Ariadne laughs, and slips inside, giving him a thoughtful look. "It was really bugging you, wasn't it?"

"I can't even begin to tell you how much," Arthur agrees. "Some faces are meant to be fuzzy; mine is not one of them."

"If it makes you feel better," Ariadne sighs, "although it's going to take some time to get used to you as a smoothie again."

She blushes when Arthur leans forward and whispers, "I'll make it worth your while, believe me."

"Oh really?" Ariadne asks, feeling a sweet little charge of joy. "I'll just have to hold you TO that, then."

"Count on it," Arthur assures her, and turns back to the mirror, busily drawing the razor across his chin again. She watches him shave for a bit, fascinated to see the process, and amused at how it so clearly gives him pleasure to be tidy again. When Arthur is done, he wipes his face with a damp towel and makes faces at himself, stretching and examining himself from every angle to find spots missed. Ariadne snickers at his expressions.

"I hope you'll hold off on giving yourself a haircut too," she murmurs, slipping her arms around him from behind. "I love your curls."

"No curls," Arthur grumbles, but lightly. "It's not professional."

"Awww," Ariadne pouts, and runs her fingers along his scalp, fluffing his hair even as she massages Arthur's head. "But you're so cute this way!"

"If you like my curls, I'll let you choose any you want off the barbershop floor," Arthur promises her.

She laughs, and tugs on his hair before releasing him.

"Room service—what do you want for dinner?" Ariadne asks, amused at how Arthur's interest perks up.

They discuss their choices as they step out of the bathroom. Eames looks at them and smiles crookedly. "I hope I'm allowed a suggestion or two—and no my darlings, fish will NOT be on the menu tonight."

000ooo000ooo000

By the time Eames is out of the bathroom, the meal has arrived, and the three of them indulge themselves with genuine pleasure, taking apart two good T-bone steaks along with baked potatoes and for dessert, chocolate ice cream.

Naturally Arthur insists on some cautions, pointing out that they shouldn't overload their systems, and Eames teases him about it. They share the ice cream and gradually, after brushing their teeth in an amused lineup at the bathroom sink, they gravitate to the bed, feeling full, warm, happy and hopeful.

Eames manages the middle spot, and pulls the other two into him, comforted by the skin-to-skin contact, feeling warm and comfortable and slightly needy. It's wonderful to be back in civilization, yes, but better than that, it's humblingly glorious to know that this relationship is still here, still solid.

In fact, he's feeling _increasingly _solid now, and when a hand curls around his shaft, Eames gives a happy groan. He kisses first one then the other, savoring the sweetness of each lover. Ariadne wraps herself around one of his thighs, fingers tweaking his nipples as she licks along his throat.

Arthur is pressing up against his other hip, fingers sliding along Eames' erection, teasing it firmly. Eames shudders a little, caught between Ariadne's sharp little nips and Arthur's calloused caresses. It's sweet, being the object of their desires, and he lets them play with him with ever-increasing passion, feeling like the luckiest man in the world for the moment.

Under the bed, Tyro gives a snort and the sound makes all three of them pause for a moment and laugh.

"Someone's feeling left out," Ariadne murmurs, shifting away.

"No bestiality," Arthur shoots back, nuzzling Eames' neck. "I love the dog, but I don't intend to _love_ the dog."

This makes Eames laugh, and he rolls over, pinning Arthur down. "No, I can understand that, darling, but for the moment, we have so many nicer things to think of . . ."

It thrills him that Arthur doesn't flinch, doesn't tense up. Eames stretches out on him, pinning their cocks between their bodies; the heat and pressure made both of them groan. He turns his head and Ariadne is there, kissing him with her little cat ferocity, her grin against his mouth. "Rub-a-dub," she laughs, and shifts to kiss Arthur in turn.

There's enough slickness to their pre-cum to make the rubbing work, and work well; Eames braces his arms on either side of Arthur's wide shoulders and rocks against him. Arthur reaches down and lets his hands encircle their swollen pricks, adding firm slow counter-strokes to the thrusting as Ariadne nestles close and kisses both their bodies.

_Sweet madness in the dark,_ Eames thinks, and it's his last coherent thought before he lets go of rationality. In their bed, in the warmth here there are hands and mouths and sighs and sweet filthy words that encircle all three of them as they give in to each other.

He loses track for a while. First Arthur, then Ariadne, then both of them in a long session of layered orality that has everyone's mouth busy. Eames knows his lovers, knows their bodies and savors bringing pleasure to them. He loves to bring Arthur to the edge of orgasm, watch his eyes close tightly and hear the man's breathing go deep and ragged. Eames loves to see Ariadne rock her head from side to side, and watch her chest flush with the dull rose of deep arousal.

How he loves them.

When they're asleep, lost in the deep exhaustion of post-coital bliss, Eames waits until he hears slow even breathing on either side of him. He shifts, and climbs over Ariadne, slipping off the bed and waiting to make sure they're both still asleep.

A snuffling at his bare feet makes Eames look down, and in the dark, Tyro is only a shadowy ball of fluff. Eames bends and pets the pup, his big hand stroking along the soft fur. "Shhhhhh," he whispers, and pads out of the bedroom to the living room. He flips open the laptop and signs on.

Twenty minutes later, dressed and silent, Eames slips out of the front doors of the hotel to the waiting taxi. He grunts out the destination to the driver and slumps down into the seat, rubbing his eyes. Dawn is on the horizon, and the streets of Helsinki are already full of traffic, but Eames doesn't see any of it, and his thoughts are thousands of miles away in London.


	2. Chapter 2

To say Arthur is pissed it putting in mildly. He searches the entire suite, the puppy following him anxiously, and when it's evident that Eames has disappeared, Arthur drops himself down into one of the chairs in the living room and swears quietly for three minutes solid.

Ariadne appears halfway through it, and rubs her eyes, looking confused and then upset. She moves through the suite and returns, wearing one of the robes. "Damn it. Where?"

"No clue, but I'll find him," Arthur assures her and reaches for the laptop. It takes only a few minutes, but in that time, Ariadne sees the wet wad of paper on the floor.

Arthur looks up briefly as she holds out a shredded mess, and winces.

"The dog ate his Dear John letter," Ariadne mutters, and tries to smooth it out as Arthur scours the browser history.

"He booked a flight into London three hours ago, so barring complications he'll be getting in around noon."

There's a knock at the door, and Arthur automatically reaches for the gun that's not there at the base of his spine. Feeling foolish, he pads over to the door and checks the spy-hole, hoping against completely unreasonable hope that it's Eames, back with some damned morning paper and a bag of pastries.

It would be just like the asshole; Arthur tries to argue with himself.

Instead, it's the anxious blue eye of Dominic Cobb, and Arthur yanks open the door. Cobb practically tumbles in, and they lock into a hard hug.

"Jesus!" Cobb mutters, and then because words fail him, he says it again. "Jesus!"

"Nope," Arthur tells him, grinning despite himself. "Not nearly that old. Damned good to see you, Dom. Damned good." He's choking a little, because there were times when Arthur wasn't sure he'd see his old partner again. But Dom is big and solid, smelling of Irish Spring soap and _here_.

"Dom!" Ariadne calls out and darts over, robe fluttering as she launches herself. Dom catches her easily with one arm, laughing when she clings to him.

"Whoah! Good to see you too!" he calls out, and kisses the top of her head, an indulgence that Arthur knows is only being permitted in the emotion of the moment.

Arthur lets go of the hug, but Dom isn't quite ready and hangs on a second longer before reluctantly releasing him. "Where's Eames?"

"Gone," Ariadne snaps. "Took off a few hours ago without telling us."

Arthur flexes his shoulders. "Something must have come up," he offers, and Ariadne shoots him a look before letting go of Dom and trotting back to the coffee table, pulling her robe more tightly around her. She squats down, smoothing out the wet and damaged note while Tyro enthusiastically sniffs at Dom's shoes, liking what he smells. Dom grins and pets the dog.

"Hey there," he murmurs, and Tyro's tail wags faster. Dom shoots a look at Arthur, who gives a slightly embarrassed shrug.

"A . . . complication."

"I'll bet. Picking up strays isn't like you," Dom points out, but he's smiling as he says it, his expression relieved and happy. "Cute though."

"He's not bad," Arthur offers, coming over to where Ariadne is. "So—what's it say?"

"He thanked us for last night . . . uh, for dinner," Ariadne stammers, and keeps her eyes down. "And he needs to get to Eng because of Gr. That's got to be granny. God his printing is awful, even without the dog spit and holes in the paper."

"Granny?" Dom asks, and Arthur fills him in while Ariadne slips away to dress. When she returns in sweatpants and hoodie, Dom looks vaguely amused.

"If he needs to head home then he needs to go. I'm not exactly the best person to argue against that point," he offers.

"Yes, but—"Arthur starts and then stops, looking away, aware that there's no explanation he can give that isn't incriminating. Luckily Ariadne clears her throat and pulls Dom's attention away.

"The three of us have been though a lot together," she reminds him. "It's natural that we'd be concerned about him. Eames is like . . . family."

Dom shrugs. "We can start by tracing his flight. Do you know anything about his home life or his base of operations in England?"

It sounds so cold, but both Ariadne and Arthur know Dom's questions are going in the right direction. Arthur pulls up the laptop and begins typing away while Ariadne tugs Dom aside and quietly fills him in on the details of their captivity.

He listens as he types, and Arthur is glad to hear that Ariadne is editing the emotional details. Time enough to fill Dom in on those matters; for the moment what's important is finding Eames and figuring out where to go from there.

000ooo000ooo000

Ariadne is feeling jumpy, and she can't quite put her finger on why. She's grateful that Tyro is pressed up against her shin, his little warm bulk a comfort as she speaks to Dom. He's attentive, asking questions and nodding when she speaks, and yet she feels nervous under his caring gaze.

He rises, and the sudden _loom _of him over her makes Ariadne shiver; she fights it, and tries to smile—this is Dom, he'd never hurt her. Hell, he just _rescued _her—but still, Ariadne can't quite fight the reactive tremor.

Dom misses it; Arthur doesn't. Ariadne tries to shake her head, but he rises and steps over, standing near her, his strong, solid presence taking the jumpiness out of her system as he speaks quietly. "I've got a lead on Eames. Look, it's going to take some time to re-establish our lives as it is, and I'm not sure it's a good idea to go back to old haunts just yet."

"Smart," Dom agrees. "You both can stay with me and Miles for the time being—he's offered, and I'm heading back there anyway to pick up the kids after I talk with your rescue team."

Ariadne manages a smile. "Yeah, where did _they_ come from?"

"Koskinen and Laako work for Mr. Saito," Dom smiles. "Once we started narrowing the search around Lake Ladoga, they were the best choice for the work. Both of them have worked search and rescue for years, and knew the terrain pretty well. They're getting compensated nicely for it, believe me."

"How much is this going to set us back?" Arthur asks pragmatically, and Ariadne manages a dry smirk. Trust Arthur to want the bill upfront.

Dom laughs. "For right now, nothing, but it would be safe to say that we might be on retainer for a few jobs in the future, when you're up to it."

Neither Ariadne nor Arthur say anything, and Dom sighs in the awkwardness of the moment. He rubs the back of his head. "So I guess the first thing would be to get you checked out, physically—"

"—no," Ariadne blurts. "The first thing is to find Julian," she corrects herself hastily, "Eames," adding, "He wouldn't have left unless it was serious."

Dom shoots a puzzled look at her, and Arthur breaks in, gently. "He was damned good to both us though it all; we owe him, Dom."

Ariadne is grateful when Dom gives a slow nod and sighs, pacing a little. "Okay. I can tell you right now that your dog isn't going to England though, not with that six month quarantine in place for pets without papers or health records."

She tenses until Dom adds, "But I don't think Miles and the kids would mind puppy sitting for a few weeks or two. I'd planned on staying in France until the end of the month anyway."

"You'd do that?" Ariadne blinks, touched at the offer. Dom squats down and offers a hand; Tyro bounces over and licks it, tail wagging. A moment later and Dom is scratching him under the chin.

"Yeah," he smiles, that kind and gentle smile Ariadne remembers from the early days. "He looks like a good little guy."

She can't fight a prickle of grateful tears, and sniffs to hide them. "He is, even if he_ does _chew anything left on the floor."

Dom laughs. "James used to do that too. Now he'll have a buddy."

000ooo000ooo

Eames rubs his eyes and tries to get used to the noise of the traffic again. The impact of the city after so much time alone in the woods is intense, and he fights his flinches as horns blare and cars zoom past along the busy streets. Hammersmith remains much as he remembers it, albeit smellier and louder.

He steps into the hospital and speaks to the receptionist, who reluctantly checks her computer and nods. She gives him a visitor's badge and directs him to the seventh floor before turning back to her stack of files and coffee.

When he reaches the room, Eames hesitates outside the door, steeling himself, trying to make his expression nonchalant and light, but deep inside the fear solidifies in a huge dreadful lump, not helped at all by the scents of rubbing alcohol and plastic.

There are two beds here, and one is empty. The other holds a tiny withered doll of a woman, and Eames moves closer as the morning sunshine coming through the vertical blinds makes warm bright stripes across the tiled floor. He stares at her, studies her for a long moment.

She's gotten smaller, Eames thinks. Granny Jane's curls are bedraggled and damp, and her little face looks wan under the oxygen feed in her nose. He hesitates, and in that moment, she opens her bleary blue eyes and looks at him.

"Oh you boy," she croaks, and the dimples appear on her cheeks, reminding Eames a bit of Arthur's. "Finally comin' round to see me, eh?"

"Soon as I could," Eames rumbles in soulful honesty. He ambles forward and grabs a chair, dragging it over to her bedside. Her small hand is cool but surprisingly strong; Granny Jane grips his and squeezes.

"Boy, stop looking at me as if I'm ready to be laid out," she whispers to him. "This is nothing but my winter cold. I'll be fine."

"You will," Eames nods, settling into the chair lightly, like a cat. Granny Jane waits until he's comfortable, just watching him. She keeps her hand in his, and when Eames is relaxed, she narrows her gaze playfully.

"You're shaggy as my parlor rug, you are, and peaky-looking, pet. You haven't been in the nick in one of those far-off places, have you?"

Eames coughs to cover his surprise. "Maybe. Part of the time, anyway. But it's over now, and I'm here. Where's mum? And Vi?"

"They've been round a few times," Granny Jane murmured tiredly. "Nasty cats, the pair of them chattering away on those cells of theirs."

The conversation drifts through family gossip and fact; Eames is always amused at how sharp his grandmother is in her opinions, and how refreshing it is to hear her matter-of-fact assessments about everyone.

" . . . and of course Nicola is still pretending she's not still downing all those pills, but you can hear her purse rattling whenever she walks; honestly, the girl's got enough to open a pharmacy in that bag of hers,"Granny murmurs sadly. "Can't help but wonder where it all went wrong, pet. It's almost better your granddad isn't around to see our family now."

Before Eames can say anything, they both hear the harsh tapping of high heels coming down the hall. He gives his Granny's hand a squeeze and she squeezes back, the pair of them sharing a moment of comfort.

Eames looks up as a florid-faced woman in stylish clothes just a little too tight saunters into the room. She shoots him a surprised stare that immediately morphs into distaste as she looks him up and down.

"Well. You took your _fucking_ time getting here now, didn't you? Gran could have been dead fifteen times over while you were off somewhere with some tart . . . or pansy."

"Language, Vi," Granny Jane growls, and begins coughing. Eames sets his teeth and flashes a chilly smile up at his aunt.

"Missed you too," he murmurs and turns back to hand Granny a tissue from the nightstand.

"It's ridiculous," Vi snaps, giving Eames a hateful gaze. "The way you favor him, and all for what? He disappears for months at a time, never bothers to come for the holidays, sleeps with God knows who . . . or what."

"Enough," Granny manages softly. "You shut it, Vi; he's a grown man and can do as he likes."

"I think we _all_ know that," Vi gets in nastily before pacing to the foot of the bed and looking at the various monitors. "In any case it doesn't matter since you'll be coming home with _me _anyway. And don't you start," she warns Eames, pointing a talon-like nail at his scowl. "You may be her favorite and in charge of her legal affairs, but you don't have any sort of a permanent residence, Julian. Mum needs stability. She needs care."

"I'm going back to my _own_ home, thank you very much!" Granny Jane announces in a croak. "The very idea! I'm not going to be shoved in with Nicola, or Davey and Trev!"

"Not in my lifetime," Eames agrees in a polite tone of pure steel. He rises up to his full height, but it doesn't intimidate Vi, who gives him a cold and slightly smug smile of her own.

"No fixed address, Julian. That's sure as hell not going to fly with National Health, believe me, sweetie."


	3. Chapter 3

The first flight they can get out of Helsinki isn't for a few hours, so Arthur takes Ariadne shopping. She's impatient, but he's calm, distracting her from fretting about Eames by making her try on things.

It works to some degree. Ariadne doesn't like much in the way of girly clothes, but she starts to relax looking at scarves, and when it's time to head to the airport, she's got a new suitcase neatly packed with all the essentials she's been missing, plus a few extras as well.

Arthur is glad Dom took the puppy earlier; he himself is still having trouble adjusting to city life again. Between the sounds, smells and speed of life, it's jarring to the nerves. He's adjusting, though, and doesn't mind having Ariadne sticking close to him as they walk through the airport to the right gate.

He wonders about Eames, worries about him. The man's a survivor, yes, but things are different now, and Arthur isn't sure if following him to England is going to screw matters up or not, but at the moment he doesn't have a choice. Ari is determined, and Arthur knows it's better to follow this time.

Arthur texts Dom to let him know when they board, and then settles in next to Ariadne on the plane. They're in first class, so there's more room and privacy, and Arthur feels like napping. He stretches his long legs out, preparing to close his eyes when he feels Ariadne drop her head against his shoulder.

"What if we're making a big mistake?" she whispers in an uncertain voice that goes straight to his heart. "What if Julian just wanted a quick and easy way out?"

Arthur's thought of this too, and his voice is slow and deep. "Then he'll have to tell us that face-to-face. Right now, I'm giving him benefit of the doubt because I know he was trying to get in touch with _some_one the whole time we were in Helsinki."

"Yeah," Ariadne agrees, still hesitant. "We just . . . we just haven't had any time to talk about this, and figure out what we want. I mean, I know what_ I_ want, but—"

Before she can say more, the captain breaks in, his folksy announcements about the weather and departure time coming over the intercom overhead. Flight attendants begin to move briskly down the aisle, checking seatbelts and overhead compartments while the engines of the plane start up.

Ariadne moves her head away from his shoulder and Arthur feels the loss. He takes her cool hand, and shoots her a quick sidelong glance. "We'll find him. I promise."

"Finding him is one thing . . . hanging onto him . . ." Ariadne murmurs, and her fingers tighten in his. "Julian is _ours_, Arthur. You know that."

He ponders that as the plane takes off, and it brings odd sensations deep in his chest. Arthur has never thought of himself as the possessive type; most of his life has been lived expediently to this point. But there's something in Ariadne's words that ring true, and he gives himself time to consider what all this changed relationship will actually mean in the real world.

And if he's up to it.

The flight to Heathrow is just long enough for a nap, and Arthur is grateful to get some sleep. Ariadne curls against him, and although it's hard to get completely comfortable in separate seats, they manage. London is dark and overcast as they make their way through the airport, but it's good to hear spoken English again. Arthur drags Ariadne to a burger stand in the food court, buying her something to eat while he checks on the laptop between bites of his own burger.

"It tastes . . . weird," she mutters, looking at it fretfully. "Really greasy."

"Yeah, well we've been on a pretty fat-free diet for a while, so I'm not surprised. At least drink the shake, okay?"

She does, looking lightly smutty; Arthur catches her glance over the straw and winks at her. Ariadne blushes.

"Okay, thanks to our corporate connections, I can search the records of any hospital owned or managed by our sponsor from Japan. Looks like there are a few Jane Eames in and around London, but only one over the age of eighty. She was admitted a week ago to Hammersmith Hospital, and is due to be discharged . . . shit. We have to get going," Arthur grunts in annoyance.

"Today?" Ariadne is already up, tossing the trash and looking over at him.

"Yeah, by five. Our best chance is getting there before that happens, because once she's out, it will be a lot harder to track him, even if we have her address."

A thousand stray thoughts cross Arthur's mind: logistics, strategies, back-up plans and potential disasters, but overriding all of them is the memory of Eames' mouth against his, and the solid warmth of arms around him. Arthur feels Ariadne's hand slip into his.

"Ours," she repeats, and Arthur nods.

000ooo000ooo000

She's worried. There's a lot on her mind, and Ariadne tries to sort it into priorities all the better to deal with it. Foremost is getting to Julian; she can feel the urgency all the way down to her toes now, and it keeps her from relaxing.

In the cab, she and Arthur discuss possible scenarios, pooling together what they know about Eames' family. It's more than she realizes, and that's the first heartening moment.

"I know he doesn't get along with his mother or his aunt," Ariadne comments. Arthur thrusts out his jaw, nodding.

"And he said something about a cousin on meds and some nephews, but I don't remember much more than that," he adds. "I'm guessing his granny must be better, but at her age, she probably needs in-home care of some sort. There weren't any discharge instructions listed on-line."

"Yet," Ariadne finishes. "If she needs care, then I can understand Julian taking off . . . mostly. I mean, he could have _told _us, and we'd understand!"

"If he left a note, that's as much as we could expect," Arthur grumbles. "Ari—there's a chance that he's going to be pissed. It will be worse if his Granny is seriously ill. You _know_ that, right?"

Ariadne does. She's been fighting the butterflies in her gut since the flight, but she needs to see this through and tells Arthur so. He nods.

"And I don't know about the two of you, but I'm not exactly in a rush to get back to Dreaming," Ariadne confesses. "I know the market's open right now, but between the residual effects and the security risks . . . I just don't feel . . . safe."

Arthur shoots her a commiserating look. "I don't think any of us are ready to pick it up again right now, but what I _do_ know is that before that happens, I want us all to take some serious security training. You need to know how to handle weapons in the real world, not just in Dreams, and I know Eames and I could stand brushing up as well. I'm not going back into Extraction without precautions."

"Yes," she agrees. The cab arrives, and they climb out, looking up at the buildings. Arthur points with his chin to the directory sign and leads her to it.

"She's in the East wing, and due to be discharged in about forty-five minutes. How do you want to play this?"

"Meet her," Ariadne replies firmly. "If she's anything like Julian, we'll be in luck."

She knows by now that luck isn't a trait that Arthur believes in, but he takes her hand and herds her in the right direction, his dimples flashing for a moment.

The hospital is busy and clean, and when Arthur presents his driver's license at the information desk, the perky clerk hands over badges ("Oh Mrs. Eames will be glad to have more visitors!") and directs them to the seventh floor.

Outside the door Ariadne pauses, feeling her pulse speed up; she feels like she's on a windowsill ready to jump. There's no way of knowing what they're walking into, no assurances of any kind. To Arthur she murmurs. "God I wish I had my totem."

His answering nod and squeeze of the hand is enough, and she knocks softly.

A second later the door opens and a familiar chest is there, a familiar and very stunned face. Ariadne stares up at him, and when Eames smiles, she feels as if her body is filling with helium, lifting her up.

"Darlings . . ." Eames breathes, his eyes lighting up as he takes in the two of them. "What the _hell_ are you doing here? Not that I'm not supremely thrilled to see the both of you, but it's a _bit_ of an awkward time . . ."

"You _left_ us!" Ariadne blurts out, and then tiptoes to reach up and cup his face. "We want to help, so shut up."

"I like that one," comes an elderly voice, and Ariadne peeps around the solid bulk of Eames to see a petite woman in a powder-blue velour tracksuit sitting on the hospital bed. She looks almost bird-like with her fluffy short hair and grey-green eyes.

"Mrs. Eames?" Arthur steps forward and extends his hand. "I'm Arthur."

Ariadne comes over to shyly introduce herself as well, feeling embarrassed and amused at the same time, but the woman's hand squeezes hers gently.

"Jane Eames, Julian's grandmother," she murmurs, her eyes twinkling. "But I suspect you already know that, hmmm?"

"He's told us nice things about you," Arthur replies as Eames saunters over, sheepishly rubbing the back of his own neck.

Ariadne watches as his grandmother gives him a sharp, but amused look. "_Two_, boy? That's rather greedy, isn't it?"

"They were a matched set," Eames protests weakly. "Honestly, choosing between them would be an utter crime, Granny, especially since they both . . ." he coughs and blushes; Ariadne feels her own face go red.

". . . love him," Arthur fills in dryly. "Unlikely as that may seem. Mr. Eames, what's going on?"

000ooo000ooo000

Eames gets over his surprise quickly; this is Arthur and he wants the bullet point version of matters. There may be a chance now, and he feels a sense of hope well up.

"Gran's being discharged; problem is, Vi's determined to make a fuss about whether or not I'm going to be permitted to handle her care since I'm not a resident of yon blessed isle of Albion these days. Frankly I don't see what bloody business of hers it is anyway, but once Mum and Vi get their fangs into an issue . . ." He trails off, remorse and frustration in his tone.

"Then it's a good thing you've hired us," Arthur smoothly points out. "Concerned grandson that you are, you arranged for services through Mr. Saito's many medical interests."

"You did?" Granny asks, a step behind, but Eames finds himself nodding.

And smirking.

"You're so very right, Arthur. I _did_ arrange for in-home care through Saito corp. How silly of me to have forgotten."

"In-home . . . oh yes, of _course_," Granny chirps, her expression exceedingly smug. "With Miss Ariadne and Mr. Arthur. It's amazing what my health plan covers now, isn't it?"

"Amazing," Arthur agrees, still deadpan, but Eames can tell he likes Granny. "Let me talk briefly with my . . . associates, and I'll be right back."

The despair of a few moments earlier gives way to a reckless sense of hope, and Eames takes a breath. He reaches for Ariadne's hand and pulls her to him, almost purring. "You're a pair of idiots, caring about me this much," he tells her softly.

"Yes," she agrees. "The dog ate most of your note, by the way. Arthur and I covered for you with Dom, so you owe us big time and don't think we won't take it out of your hulking hide."

He's aroused and amused and grateful all in one; even as Granny clears her throat loudly, Eames drops a quick kiss on Ariadne's mouth and turns. "Yes ma'am?"

"Vi will be coming soon; it wouldn't do to be seen snogging the nurse," Granny points out, her tone amused. "Your mum wouldn't be too pleased either."

Eames rubs his nose contritely; Granny is the only family member whose approval he wants, so he nods to the wheelchair that's next to the bed.

"Shall I help you in, then?"

Granny nods, and with Ariadne's assistance, they get her settled into the chair without a problem. Granny pats Ariadne's hand. "I can see who's in charge here, yes. Now my main doctor is named Sutton, and the fiddly pulmonologist is Flynn, so if Vi asks, we're covered, eh?"

Eames watches as Ariadne manages a quick smile. "You're pretty trusting, Mrs. Eames."

"Pfft! I can tell good from bad, and I'd rather go with you lot than Vi and Lillian any day, believe me. And call me Jane, dear—after all, you'll be my guest tonight," Granny tells her softly.

It's not a moment too soon; Arthur steps into the room again, followed by Vi and the one woman who can make Eames wince.

"Julian," she says, the name more an accusation than anything else as she marches forward and neither hugs nor kisses him. "It figures you'd turn up _now._ Bad pennies always do, don't they?"

Eames feels the heat rush to his face, and his mother's contempt leaves him standing awkwardly, unable to say anything for the moment.

"At least _I've_ got street value," he finally replies, and the sudden sting of her slap feels familiar.

What _isn't _familiar is his mother's gasp as Arthur clamps her wrist in his unyielding grip, his eyes as cold as gunmetal.

"You will _never_ do that again," he intones, his voice flat and humorless.

His mother is slow to realize the danger, but Eames takes a step back to protect his grandmother and Ariadne. Vi is stunned too, and gawks at the stare down between her sister and this strange man.


	4. Chapter 4

"Assault is a chargeable offence," Arthur rattles off, his voice shifting to a calmer tone, "and while I appreciate that family emotions run high at times, as a professional, I must think of the welfare of my patient, Mrs. Eames." He forces the woman's arm down and releases it slowly.

Warningly.

"Your patient?" This comes from Vi, who stares at him. "Who the hell are you anyway?"

"Arthur Brewster, physical therapist," he recites gently, praying that both Eames and Ariadne will back him up. "Your mother's plan covers in-home care for the next three months, as determined by her doctor-"

"—Doctor Sutton," Ariadne breaks in firmly. "And Miss Westwood. I'm part of the in-home care team from Doctor Flynn in pulmonology."

The women share an uncertain look between them; Arthur clears his throat and checks his watch to give himself more authority.

Eames has a red patch on his cheek, but Arthur can see he's got a grateful glint in his eyes. "It seems I, Mr. Brewster and Miss Westwood have got Granny's needs covered according to plan, so we'll be seeing you, ta?"

"Granny, you need more than, than, _handlers!"_ Vi splutters, although she's not as confident as before. "Who'll make the tea? And change the linens?"

"The boy can handle that," Granny murmurs with a wave of her hand. "I'm old, Vi, not utterly helpless. Now run along before I say something to Doctor Sutton about why Julian's got a welt on his gob."

"Mum—!" Vi hisses, but Granny gives a chilly smile.

"Not a word, either of you. If you'd hit a bit hulking man like Julian, I'm rather sure the doctor would think twice about putting _me _in your care, don't you?"

It's cold and quiet and very, very effective. Both women stand silently, shooting daggers at Eames, who shifts to push Granny's wheelchair. Arthur flanks her on one side, Ariadne on the other, and as they head into the hall, he murmurs to the older woman. "Well-played, Mrs. Eames."

"Jane, dear. And yes, that was good if I do say so myself. Vi would never hit me of course, but with abuse cases so big on the telly and all, she won't say boo to a goose right now."

He grins; there's something so very Eames-like about the tiny crone's smirk. Carefully he nods and indicates an empty room; they roll her inside.

"I'll get the nurse to come officially sign off the discharge forms," Arthur tells them, and slips out again. He hears Granny speak as he goes.

"I like that one too. Very efficient, and not afraid to step in."

"Arthur's all that," Ariadne agrees, smiling. "And more."

"I'm sure," Granny nods. "Once we get home, I'm going to want a nice cuppa and the whole story, dears."

Arthur fights a smile and finds the nurse, who follows him to the room, clipboard and paper bag of medications in hand.

"All right then. You're off then, Mrs. Eames, with instructions for no heavy machinery or driving—at least for two weeks—and in-home pulmonary therapy visits twice a week. Doctor Sutton wants you to use your inhaler as needed for breathlessness, and a cough suppressant . . ."

She rattles off more general instructions while Eames nods and Ariadne takes the bag of medications. ". . . and we'll see you for a follow-up in a week or so. Now, let's roll you down to the lobby . . ."

When they get there, Arthur looks at Eames, who has already called for a taxi. "Where are we going?"

"Home, dear," Granny interrupts. "And I won't hear of you not staying, at least for the night. I've got room, never fear."

Arthur shoots a look at Eames, who nods. "She does you know. I'd be grateful if you both stayed. More than grateful loves."

There's something in his tone that tells Arthur it's the humble truth, and he nods at Eames, giving a little shrug as well. "Lead on," he murmurs, and takes Ariadne's free hand.

Because both Ariadne and Granny are on the small side, the taxi fits them all comfortably, and Eames gives the driver directions in a low voice. Arthur listens as the two women chat softly, and he watches the scenery shift from downtown to suburb, the shifting locales moving from standard terrace housing to greener, older neighborhoods farther north of London proper.

Nearly forty minutes later, home turns out to be a duplex—Eames calls it a 'semi-detached'-at the end of a lane in a quiet little area surrounded by fields, and on the edge of a town by stream. Arthur likes the look of it—what he can see in the sunset anyway—and can tell that both Ariadne and Eames do too by the way they both relax as they climb out of the taxi.

It's peaceful, and the air smells much better than it did in the city. He feels himself let go of the day's tension.

000ooo000ooo000

The architectural design before her is a standard; classic duplex, mock Tudor, built in the Twenties, easily. Ariadne marvels that it's survived this long—through the bombing of WWII, and the urbanization of the country. It's not the only one; the lane they've come up has four others, all well-cared for as well. She studies it intently, reading the details in the setting sunlight as Eames and Arthur help Granny out of the taxi.

Brick of course, with classic beam work, and a well-established hedge bordering the front yard—the entire effect is charming and very British. She steps closer, peeking over the gate set in the hedge, and spots a gnome. The first of several, actually, and although Ariadne isn't fond of garden statuary, this one is interesting because it's in a original Star Trek uniform—blue—and is scanning a pot of flowers with a ceramic tri-corder.

"Okay, definitely need to get a totem," Arthur murmurs as he reaches to open the gate. Granny has one arm around his, and her other around Eames' and gives a fond glance to the figurine.

"That's Ensign Schnicklefritz," Granny murmurs and coughs a little. Ariadne comes over, concerned, and Eames tightens his grip on Granny's arm.

"All right then?" he mutters, and Granny pats his hand reassuringly.

"Y-yes. Just the l-last of it," she tells him, and lets herself be moved along. Ariadne knows better than to butt in; the guys have it well in hand, so she follows them, and steps aside into the garden proper, looking around.

More statuary. Two gnomes, one in what looks like black leather, with potholders on his shoulders is scowling at a cowering one in a blue tunic as they stand in front of a programmable watering unit. Over on the other side of the birdbath is a ceramic police call box only a foot high, and on the other side of the front walkway, a dapper gnome with a bowler and umbrella holds a tiny banner that reads '_Mrs. Peel, we're needed.'_

Ariadne laughs. A good laugh, because it's clear that Granny Eames has personality to spare, and an impish sense of humor. Or maybe a gnomish sense, Ariadne corrects herself before heading up the walkway to the open door on the left, following the three others inside.

It's compact but neat, with while lace sheers on the windows and solid, sensible furniture grouped around a small fireplace. On the mantel are the framed pictures, and Ariadne is charmed to note that several are of a young Eames. She wanders over to look at them.

Julian Eames does not like having his formal picture taken; that much is clear from the wary glares he gives the camera in the school shots. The candids, however, reveal his quick, brilliant smile and sweetness as he progresses through boyhood, lanky teen years, and into rebellious young adult. His hair varies from skin-head short fuzz to shoulder-length, and it's clear that his dress sense now is toned down from some spectacularly garish choices in his twenties. Ariadne picks up a photo and examines it more closely.

In it, Eames has his arm around Granny Jane, and between them on the patio table is a birthday cake. Ariadne guesses it must have been taken at least a decade earlier, and the madras shirt Eames is sporting has a combination of colors that glare out through the years, making her grin.

"Nice shirt," she murmurs, turning. Eames is settling his Granny into an easy chair; he looks over and smirks.

"Now, now, I _adored _that shirt."

"Beautifully hideous," Granny agrees. "Nearly blinded me the first time I saw you in it."

Arthur peeks over Ariadne's shoulder to look and winces. "Damn. That should have been registered with the police as a weapon."

"Pfffft," Eames counters easily. "Single colors get lonely, Arthur. I simply wanted to accommodate all the unloved ones."

"So you hosted a rave for them all over your torso," Arthur replies, and Ariadne sees he's working hard to suppress a smile.

"Call it what you will; in that shirt, nobody ever took me for granted," Eames grumbles, and Granny cackles as she reaches over to pat his hand.

"Granted, no. Colorblind, yes, but granted, boy—no."

Ariadne sees Eames smile at his Granny then; a wide, sweet honest smile that utterly melts her heart because_ this_ is the true Julian Eames right here.

She feels a nudge at her shoulder and looks up to see Arthur has caught the smile too, and somehow all her doubts from the conversation on the plane vanish in that moment.

"We wouldn't want him any other way," Ariadne announces, and it thrills her to see Eames blush and duck his head.

Granny gives a little sigh and looks around at all three of them. "All right, we need to put our heads together and get matters sorted out. You three shall be staying on the other side, and you're welcome there for as long as the boy is in town. I can call for carry away vindaloo, and I'll need my inhalers of course, and then I'm going to bed. Sorry, but Vi takes it out of me, and of course she'll be here at the crack of noon tomorrow, so we'd best be ready."

Arthur pulls up a chair for her, and takes another, inclining his head to Granny. "War council; I like her too, Eames."

000ooo000ooo000

After putting Granny to bed, he slips outside, ambling down the steps to the front garden, feeling almost buoyant, like a balloon freshly filled with helium. _Heal-i-um_ Eames puns to himself mentally, his mood lighter since bringing Granny home. The streetlights are coming on, and all down the lane, Eames can see the other homes at peace in the night.

Eames wishes he had a cigarette. He's forbidden himself to smoke at his grandmother's—now especially with her pneumonia—but a quick cigarette and a glass of scotch would make it damned near a perfect night.

He still can't believe Ariadne and Arthur are here. That they searched him out and came _after_ him. It's mind-boggling, and Eames is still trying to take it in. That Arthur stood up to Vi without a second's hesitation is equally stunning, and he replays the moment in his thoughts and grins.

"Something pleasing you?" comes a voice, and he doesn't have to turn to know Arthur is ambling up to him. Eames moves to the birdbath and studies the mossy water.

"A lot actually, darling. Still trying to decide if I should make a new totem or not, because what you and the terrible pixie did still has me wondering if I'm under."

"We're very real, Mr. Eames. I think Ariadne is keen on showing you how much so," Arthur smirks, before asking in a more serious tone, "you okay?"

"Right now Granny's all right, so yes, I am, relatively speaking." Eames sighs. "The two of you showing up like that . . . still trying to wrap my comprehension about that though."

He feels Arthur slip a hand up to cup the back of his neck; the gesture he'd begun back in the van and didn't finish then. This time Arthur pulls his face close, and in the twilight, Eames feels the man's breath, warm and tinted slightly with curry as he speaks. "We have matters to discuss and they can't be put off anymore. Ariadne's putting up a good face, but she needs to know, and I do too, where this is—"

Eames cuts him off with a good kiss; it's the best way to deal with Arthur's bossiness, and he pours all his gratitude and love into it. Arthur resists for all of a nanosecond, and then kisses back warmly.

When they break for breath, Eames hears Arthur give a small sigh. "Nice, but we still need to talk."

"All right," Eames agrees, thinking that maybe cigarettes and scotch are overrated when he has two lovers waiting for him.

The other half of Granny's semi-detached is a mirror of her side, but the furniture here is a mix of pieces, and it's far less put together. Ariadne is there, drinking a bottled water, and she looks up at the two of them as they come through the adjoining door from Granny's side. "Everything okay?"

"Fine, love," Eames murmurs, dropping onto the flowery sofa of the living room and patting his thigh. "Now, come let me thank you for everything."

Ariadne snorts, but glides over, dropping into a neat little curl against him. Eames looks to Arthur, who steps around and drops himself on the other side of Eames, his weariness evident in the slump of his wide shoulders.

"All right then. First of all, thank you. I know I was an utter bastard for up and leaving, but Gran needed me, and given what that woman's done over the years to keep me sane, fair's only fair," Eames begins, slipping an arm around each of them. "And I _was _going to come back."

"To what?" Arthur mutters, eyes closed. "Forgive me, but our . . . association is still somewhat undefined, Eames. We didn't get a lot of lead time out of Russia, and the paradigm has changed."

"Metamorphosed, more like," Eames purrs quietly. "After all, we've been keeping company for quite a while before our little hijacking to the Soviet Union. I think our time there simply brought forth our mutual attractions and dependencies."

"Julian, you can sweet-talk all you want, but I'm still pissed," Ariadne tells him, nuzzling along his collarbone. "Why the hell did you leave a note? Why couldn't you just wake us and _tell_ us?"

He draws a breath, aware that despite closed eyes, Arthur is listening intently too, and tips his head back, looking towards the ceiling. "Because at the barest level, darling, it was what I knew how to do. I've left more than I've loved; the pattern was set ages ago. If I'd woken you and said, "Look, my Gran's possibly on her deathbed, do you mind if I rush 'round and see her?' there's no telling what the result would be. By slipping out, I knew exactly what to do, and how to do it."

He feels Ariadne's punch against his ribs, a jab that hurts his feelings, not his torso. "Ooof!"

"You bastard," Ariadne growls, but her voice is more pained than angry. "Did you really think we'd hold you back? That we'd say 'no you can't see her?"

"No, he thought we'd slow him down," Arthur breaks in tonelessly. "And he's right. If we'd had to pack and book flights together and get the dog taken care of, it would have taken at least a day, probably more. One always travels more expediently than three."

"That doesn't make it _right,"_ She argues back, and Eames nods in agreement.

"You're right. I bollixed this up properly by trusting old instincts. I'm a very old dog, Ari; new tricks take time for me."

"I can forgive you," she snaps softly, climbing into his lap and pressing her nose against his, "If you remember who you belong to, Mr. Eames. Arthur?"

The point man opens his eyes and shoots a sidelong glance his way; Eames sees humor and compassion and a hint of gloating in Arthur's gaze. "Let's get to bed; we'll settle this in the morning."


	5. Chapter 5

Bed turns out to be a queen-sized affair with a flowery duvet, set in the middle of a small bedroom upstairs. Arthur looks at Ariadne who looks at Eames, who is smirking.

"I've slept by myself in that bed off and on for years," he murmurs quietly. "First time I'll have company."

"There won't be enough room," Arthur points out, feeling his face go warm. It's one thing to have a cabin or a hotel room to themselves, and quite another with an elderly woman barely one room over. Particularly given how . . . loud . . . certain people are.

"There will be," Eames insists in a soft tone. "It's the same size as in the cabin."

"That was just us," Ariadne points out. "And we were alone."

"Gran? She won't hear us," Eames assures, sitting down on the bed and pulling his shirt off over his head. "Not that it matters; I'm sure we're all knackered anyway. No energy for much else right now."

"True," Arthur admits. All three of them are jet-lagged and pale as the events of the day catch up with them. The bed does look inviting, and reluctantly Arthur yawns.

They all climb in; Ariadne in a tee-shirt and panties, Arthur in his boxers, and as usual, Eames in bare skin. It's not meant as a come-on; Eames always sleeps nude and they all know that. Nevertheless, Arthur feels the heat of the man against his back and it's comforting and arousing all at the same time.

Arthur's in the middle, and like three spoons in a drawer, they all curl up, gently falling asleep despite the different mattress and unfamiliarity of the room.

_He is in a strange house, moving from room to room. Somewhere here Arthur knows he'll find Ariadne and Eames, so he must keep looking. One room is full of Pasivs, stacked from floor to ceiling; Arthur squeezes past them, wincing as he hears them tumble behind him._

_Pushing on, Arthur turns, and suddenly he's in Berlin, standing near the Wall. He knows this is wrong; the Wall doesn't exist anymore, but here it is. He looks up, and Ariadne is standing on the top, dressed in a wedding gown. Arthur holds out his arms, and she jumps to him._

_But when he looks at her, it's Eames in the wedding dress, looking almost . . . good in it. Arthur glances around, looking for Ariadne, and she's there, in *her* wedding dress, holding a plate of cell phones._

Arthur wakes up with a twitch, mind musing over the dream and smiling in the dark. Some of it's obvious; he knows he's been considering getting back into Extraction, hence the pasivs. Ariadne in a wedding dress is pretty simple too: Arthur is old-fashioned enough to want serious commitment in the relationship. But the Berlin Wall defies explanation, and Eames in a wedding dress simply makes him smirk.

Lightly he scoots forward and kisses the back of Eame's neck, and the other man stirs, giving a low purr. "Arthur."

"Mmmmm. Where's Ari?" Belated Arthur realizes she's not in the bed, and the faint light of morning through the curtains hints that it's going to be an overcast day.

"Over on Granny's side, planning the shopping with her and making brekky soon I hope." Eames tells him, rolling over and looking vulnerable in his sleepy way. Like Arthur, he hasn't had time to get his hair cut, and it's shaggy but straight, unlike the point man's waves.

Arthur sighs when Eames shifts closer, slipping an arm around his shoulders. "Okay, so we have to get a few things clear, Mr. Eames."

"Thank God you didn't say 'straight,' darling," Eames murmurs, nuzzling his ear. Arthur feels a shiver of desire run down his spine because the combination of body heat and the scent of warm skin is like a flint against his libido, making sparks.

"We'll dispense with the labels," Arthur tries to be serious, making his expression as grim as he can. It's difficult when Eames begins to nibble his throat. "Eames-"

"Sorry pet, but this is pretty much a fantasy come true for me," Eames sighs, sliding a hand along Arthur's chest. "Everyone home safe, with no bullet holes in them."

Arthur turns his head to look at Eames, seeing a solemn honesty in his eyes, and he feels it too; it's true. 'Home' and 'safe' have new meanings for him too now, defined by Ariadne's smile and Eames' bear-hug. He bends closer and gently kisses Eames with a press of lips that hold a smile.

"You're impossible," Arthur mutters against that cupid mouth.

"Actually," Eames replies, sliding his hand down Arthur's hard and flat stomach, into the waistband of his boxers, "You'll find I'm ridiculously easy."

"Jesus, your Granny . . ." Arthur grunts, caught between the surge of lust and the fear of being walked in on, but Eames flicks his tongue along the underside of Arthur's scratchy chin.

". . . Is used to me sleeping in. We've got at least an hour before we need to make an appearance, and I think you need some attention, Arthur. Ari will bend my ear if I don't thank you. Granny too."

Arthur bites his lips; Eames' grip around his cock is damned near perfect, and the slow stroking is making his toes curl. "Damn it," he sighs, and pulls Eames over him for another kiss.

000ooo000ooo000

She's bloated and cranky and all too aware that biology is catching up to her. Ariadne's glad she took the time to pick up tampons before leaving Norway, but even with that blessing, coming back to a regular cycle in the middle of everything _else_ is annoying.

Biology can be a real pain, Ariadne decides. Fortunately, Granny has the British equivalent of Motrin, and some of the best damned tea Ariadne's ever had. It's hot and soothing and between that and the heavy cat on her lap, things are looking up.

Granny is looking in cupboards and taking stock. "More baking soda, and probably another block of butter. Thank goodness Marjorie brought over more of her gooseberry jam; Julian goes through that like a pig, he does."

Ariadne dutifully writes the supplies down, and looks over at Granny. "He's told us a little about his family, but not much."

Granny looks over her shoulder; today she's in slacks and a flowered blouse, with a hand-knit sweater that has pockets filled with tissue. "Had a peek at the dirty laundry then? Yes, it's not been easy for the boy. Lillian and my Dan weren't well-matched at all, and the fighting was horrible. I took him in when they separated, and then when Dan was killed . . ."

Ariadne feels a shiver run up her spine and the cat leaps off her lap. "His dad was killed?"

Granny blinks and nods. "Yes. There was a fight at his favorite pub sixteen years ago. They were both blind drunk fools, and ended up out in the street. His killer picked up a rubbish bin and hit him with it. Cracked his skull."

"Oh God . . ." Ariadne rises, comes over to the old woman and instinctively hugs her. Granny is light in her arms, and hugs back for a long moment before straightening a bit, and sniffing.

"It's been a long time, dear. The other was put away at Parkhurst, and won't be getting out for at least six years more."

"Still—I'm so sorry," Ariadne murmurs, feeling helpless.

Granny pats her cheek, and manages a small smile. "You've a good heart, girl. Anyway, Lil re-married a few times, and none of her husbands were much good with Julian. He was a handful, as I'm sure you know; too smart and too handsome for his own good. In and out of more schools than I can remember, did some time in remand centre as well, but his granddad and I always had a place for him here, no matter how long he'd been away."

Ariadne nods. "He told us a little about that, and how he got a tattoo for you."

Granny smiles, looking years younger. "Mother Mary, yes—I never asked for that, but I can't say I'm displeased. If he's _got _to put scribbles all over himself, he could do worse than the holy mother, I reckon. Oh, and tins of cat meat. We certainly need those, don't we, Mr. Jones?"

The cat circling Granny's ankles is a lean ribbon of black, with the longest whiskers Ariadne's ever seen. He looks up and meows, showing a pink mouth and long fangs.

"Mr. Jones?" she asks. This is the cat who had been in her lap as a warm weight against her cramping belly.

"Indeed. We have Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith and Miss Chow," Granny announces. "All visitors who've decided to stay. Not only are they darlings for the most part, but Lil is allergic to them, so they're my first line of defense, so to speak. Vi isn't allergic, alas, so I suspect she'll be the one coming 'round lunchtime."

Ariadne purses her mouth. "Arthur and I don't . . . don't want to make things difficult for you and Julian. We came wanting to help, but if we're in the way, we can go. We just wanted to be sure that both of you were okay."

Granny looks up, and there's a soft brightness in her eyes that gives Ariadne that déjà vu sense of Eames all over again. "We're right as rain because you both_ are_ here, dear. Believe me, the boy's quite in love with you two; you're the first ones he's ever allowed to meet me, so I _know_."

Now it's Ariadne's turn to sniffle a bit, and Granny hands her a tissue from her pocket, clucking and reaching out to rub her back gently, her arthritic fingers soothing in their stroke. "Now, now, I know how weepy we get during that time of the month. Let's finish up this list and I'll have you take me to Asda to do the shopping."

"Yes," Ariadne agrees, trying to remember about driving on the left, and whether or not she can find any chocolate covered potato chips.

000ooo000ooo000

Eames can't think of a better way to start the morning than with an erotically charged and tense Arthur. He tries not to grin, because the point man is quick to pick up on smirking, but between kisses, Arthur frowns.

"What's so damned funny?"

"Nothing darling. I'm very happy at the moment," Eames assures him. The truth of the matter is that Eames is not only happy, but achingly horny, and feeling a need to push the envelope a bit. He starts by moving his kisses along Arthur's lean throat and across his corded pecs, nuzzling the light fur there, and luxuriating in the warm scent of his skin. Arthur has a definitely masculine musk; clean but hormonally alpha to the core.

His kisses make Arthur tense again, but in a good way, giving how his prick throbs in Eames' grip. This is an encouraging sign, and Eames gives it a slow stroke, which makes Arthur's hips rock a bit.

"Eames . . ." comes the warning again, but there's a bit of hunger in it as well, and Eames licks his way from one nipple to the next, murmuring his words against wet skin.

"Sorry, I'm being a tease I know, but you're the patient sort, aren't you, Arthur? I do like to get my fill."

Arthur tries to say something but can't, not when Eames nips on the pebbly rivet of his nipple. Instead he groans, and one of his hands comes up to cradle Eames' head. From this position, Eames can hear the pounding of the man's heart, and it's intoxicating.

More kisses, trailing south along those ridged, lean muscles just under hot skin, and Eames finds himself lost in the intimate beauty of Arthur's body. It's wiry and wonderfully responsive to all sorts of caresses, licks and nibbles.

He's nervous. Arthur has never let him go further in terms of lovemaking, and up until now Eames has respected that limit. Chafed under it a bit, but respected it. The difficulty is that Arthur is an always has been a damned temptation, and Eames knows he could drive his lover crazy if given just a little more leeway . . .

"Please, darling," Eames murmurs, hoping like hell Arthur knows what he's asking as he drags his tongue along the thin, delicate skin around his navel. Under his mouth, Eames feels the muscles tighten.

"I . . . God, I can't. I won't let you do me if I can't do it back, and I don't _know_ how to . . ." Arthur trails off. Eames hears the embarrassment and frustration in his voice, and it makes him blink in giddy joy, because it's not a matter of 'no' it's a matter of 'how.'

Carefully Eames shifts so he's back up facing Arthur, and kisses him deeply, making him relax a bit, then he catches his chin in his hand to keep their gazes level. "So you're telling me that I can't gratify you orally, because you'd feel obligated to return the favor and you don't know . . . how?"

"Thanks for making me sound like an idiot," Arthur flushes, but his pupils are huge, and he gives a twisted smile. Eames laughs softly and kisses him again, his voice growly low.

Listen to me, Mr. Brewster, I fucking_ adore_ you, and I assure you that the pleasure of sucking you off will be all mine, regardless of whatever you think. And just because it's something I want to do to you doesn't automatically mean it needs to be reciprocated, pet. I'm very happy with simply crossing swords with you, or slippery hand jobs because you are sexy as hell. _And_ by the by, if you know what feels good in a blow job, then you already know how to do one. Trust me, it's not something that needs written instructions per se. A very hands and lips on sort of training."

Arthur's smirk is utterly filthy at that point, and he sighs, pulling Eames into another tongue-tangling kiss that steals all breath between them. It's a 'thank you' and a 'love you' all in one, and when Eames pulls away, he nips his way down Arthur's torso, determined to show the point man the same.

Flat stomach, with a line of dark hair in delicate calligraphy from tiny navel to the thicker wiry thatch of fur between lean hips. Eames nuzzles it lightly, wanting to linger, but opts to do that later. He runs a hand under the thick, jutting length of Arthur's cock, and playfully nuzzles it with his nose. Eames is aware that Arthur is half sitting up, leaning back on his elbows, watching.

With care, Eames licks, feeling Arthur shiver, and after some gentle teasing and caressing, he finally slides his mouth over the thick shaft of his lover's prick.

Arthur groans; a deep and sexy as hell sound that makes Eames throb hard in return.

He stops thinking, and simply moves, putting all his experience, skill and heart into every stroke, devoting his full attention to the job of driving Arthur out of his mind, and just as he told the man, this is definitely a pleasure.

Arthur growls and rocks and groans for a while, finally coming in thick sullen pulses that Eames swallows down in slow gulps, trying not to grin in triumph. He's still achingly hard himself, but Eames knows that's easily remedied; the important thing is that Arthur is letting him go a little further now.

He flops down on the mattress next to Arthur, studying him and trying like hell not to laugh. Arthur is as boneless as a flank steak, and about as pink. "Come here often?"

"Planning on it," Arthur shoots back, and before Eames can make a reply, Arthur has a hand curled around his rampant cock and is eyeing it cautiously. "So . . . think you can give me _verbal_ instructions?"

Eames laughs. "Blow me, Arthur."

And he does.


	6. Chapter 6

The next two weeks are one of the most indescribable of Arthur's life, and given what he's already lived through, that's saying something. There's something sweetly surreal about waking up to homemade breakfasts with three other people at the table, laughing and chatting, about cats that spend time in one's lap, and gardens full of gnomes out of Sci-fi series.

Definitely surreal.

There's an old roll top desk in the other half of the duplex, and it's the perfect spot to work on the laptop, pulling up data and re-establishing connections to Yusuf and Saito and Dom. Arthur already has files up and running for potential jobs, along with a few contacts for pasivs and travel information. The light is good, and the neighborhood quiet. Although the overcast has lingered, there is sunshine in the afternoons, and the sweet smell of wet trees sometimes on the breeze.

Granny seeks him out for advice. It starts with minor matters about bills, but progresses upwards into investments and management as she reveals her real estate portfolio, which is . . . considerable.

"Property in France, Portugal _and_ Scotland?" Arthur murmurs, impressed. Income from the rentals has been building a nice little nest egg for Granny, and now he understands why Vi and Lil might have a reason to want to be in her good graces.

"I was in the wrong place at the right time in France," she murmurs, "and a lovely gentleman friend helped me purchase the other two. All of them have local agencies keeping them cared-for at the moment. Do you think I should sell?"

Arthur shakes his head briefly. "No, not yet. Let me check a few things and I'll have better advice. Remind me not to play Monopoly with you."

That makes her cackle a bit. "I'm fairly good at acquiring properties, although I'm terrible with utilities. Oh, and there's been a delivery for you, Arthur dear."

He follows Granny through the connecting doorway and into her half of the duplex. On her kitchen table is a cardboard package the size of a briefcase with a Mombassa return address. Carefully Arthur lays a hand on it, feeling by turns pleased and anxious. Yusuf has come through, probably with Dom's help, and now all that remains is waiting until Ariadne and Eames return from shopping.

The first step into getting back to work.

"Arthur," Granny murmurs, and he looks to her, deliberately making his expression bland, but she shakes her head, her gaze sharp. "You three are going to have to tell me what you're up to."

"Jane . . . it's, it's complicated," he offers, feeling a little ashamed. Extractions are just on the other side of legal, and while they're not quite the crime that other procedures are, there's enough grey for him to feel uncomfortable about it in her presence.

She moves to put the kettle on her stove, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I know. The boy's always straddled the line, and he's not about to change now, but you and Ariadne; you're respectable."

"Only on the outside," Arthur sighs.

Granny makes tea and brings two cups to the table. She's not a mug person; her tea is always served in good china cups, and Arthur has gotten fond of the stuff. He and Granny take it the same way; minimum sugar, hot as possible. It's soothing and centering; Arthur relaxes after the first sip.

"It's not drugs," Granny presses gently, her gaze on the package, "Julian's not stupid enough to get involved with that nonsense and not the sort to use them. Neither are you two."

"Not drugs," Arthur agrees carefully. "We can keep going the Twenty Questions route if you want, but maybe it would be better if we were all here and you could just _ask _Eames."

"Where's the fun in that?" Granny replies with a mild smile. "He's been shielding me for a long time, Arthur, and frankly, whatever your skullduggery is, I'm more than capable of handling it. I've lived through the Blitz, and mad cow disease and more prime ministers than this country deserves, you know."

"You have, and I commend you for all that, but still—it's Eames' call since Ariadne and I are guests," he counters respectfully.

"Loyal," Granny nods over her cup. "I like that. Hope he plans to make an honest man of you."

Arthur's dimples show briefly. "He'd have to start with himself."

Granny chuckles at that, her teacup rattling as she sets it down again.

000ooo000ooo000

Eames is walking with her through the little mall, and Ariadne wishes he would slow his stride a little. Just her luck to fall in love with long-legged men, but the view of his ass makes up for it a bit. They pass various shops that sell everything from clothes to exotic fish, and finally Eames slows down and stops in front of one store and hums a bit.

It's a furniture store. Ariadne looks at the loveseats in the window and then back at him. "Julian . . ."

"Yes. We deserve a bigger one," he insists. "I've got the money, and I consider it an investment, my pixie. I'll cover the bed if you do the linens. Girls are supposed to have the inside track on all that sort of thing I hear."

"We can't," Ariadne protests even as Eames tugs her wrist, dragging her into the shop. "For one thing, we're _guests_!"

"Granny won't mind," Eames shoots back confidently, flashing that killer smile of his that melts part of Ariadne's brain. It isn't fair that even with the shaggy hair and half-grown beard he _still _manages to look like angel and devil combined. She reluctantly allows herself to be pulled inside, wondering if she should call Arthur and get help in stopping this madness.

A bed. Ariadne hasn't owned a new bed in . . . she thinks back and realizes the answer is 'her whole life.' Living like a nomad at various digs, and boarding with relatives or at university has meant that her own possessions are fairly meager, and furniture isn't something she's bothered with much. Even now, her things—what few there are—are stored with some company thanks to Dom and Saito's intervention at the start of their disappearance.

"May I help you?" A round and kind-looking young man comes bounding over, his face a study in earnest helpfulness. Ariadne watches Eames beam at him.

"Oh yes you may, Mr. Smythe, you may indeed."

The kid's a goner, a sucker for that smile, and Ariadne shakes her head, mostly to hide her own grin. Four months in Siberia, and Eames can still charm damned near anyone. She allows him to weave his fingers with hers and pull her closer as he speaks. "We need a bed, you see. A very sturdy, very large bed. Something that can hold up under a lot of . . . sleeping."

Ariadne feels her blush radiating off her face; she squeezes Eames' hand warningly, but he continues in that seductive purr of his. "We're heavy sleepers."

Mr. Smythe seems to be blushing too, but gamely he leads the way towards the back of the store to the fancy display of show beds and mattresses there. "Well, we have the Puff top Princess over here, sir."

"Sleeping on a Princess; sounds familiar," Eames whispers to her, and Ariadne tries to yank her hand away from his, although she's snickering as well.

"Behave," she hisses, and Eames is unfazed by her command until she adds, "Or I'll tell Granny exactly _how_ gooseberry jam stains got on her sheets."

"Ooooh, now that's just dirty pool, Miss Westwood," Eames clucks under his breath with a grin and turns his attention back to Mr. Smythe in a show of interest as the salesman begins to extol the virtues of the bed before them.

Ariadne realizes that Eames is serious, so she lets him do the questioning and haggling as she looks around the store a bit and spots the linens wall. The variety of colors and patterns there pull her in, and she spends a lovely twenty minutes finding just the right sheets among the bounty there, settling for a sand-colored ones with a border trim of Greek keys in black and green. The matching duvet is a mix of all three shades in a watercolor stipple, also trimmed by the Greek keys edging, and when Ariadne looks up, Eames whistles to her, urging her back to his side.

"This one, I think. Almost ninety eight percent certain. Hop up and let's see."

"Hop up? You're kidding, right?" Ariadne blurts, but Eames scoops her up and easily tosses her onto the mattress. She lands, growling and intending harm, but Eames launches himself after her, and manages to pin her lightly as he grins.

"Hallo, puff-top princess!" he whispers.

Ariadne plasters her palm on his face and pushes lightly. "You're pissing me off, Julian."

"Well then, you'll just have to spank me," he informs her, and rolls to his back, stretching out. "Roomy, anyway. What do you think?"

She considers the mattress and stretches out herself. "Okay, it's pretty nice."

"One of our top of the line numbers, with a layer of memory foam eight inches thick," Mr. Smythe oh-so-helpfully calls from the foot of the bed.

Eames folds his hands behind his head and makes an exaggerated snore before asking Ariadne, "So, do I sound like Arthur?"

She can't help but giggle, because actually? He does.

000ooo000ooo000

He's stuck carrying the packages, but Eames doesn't mind. Ariadne's in a lovely mood now, and that bodes well for the household. She leads the way through the garden gate, reminding him to keep quiet about Arthur's birthday presents, and Eames manages to follow and not drop anything.

It's quite a load—new sheets for the bed that will be delivered Saturday, new clothes, an incredible amount of art and drawing supplies, Arthur's presents, some edible treats for everyone, and flowers for Granny. Eames feels downright domestic and it's such an odd sensation that for a moment he has a rebellious urge to drop it all on the table inside and duck out to the local pub.

He might later, and take the other two with him if they're interested.

Eames walks in and realizes that everyone's over in Granny's half, so he scoops up the flowers and heads there himself, moving for the natural gathering place—the kitchen. As he steps in, Eames senses the sudden silence, and he takes in the sight of Ariadne, Arthur and Granny sitting at the table, and on it, a large, rectangular package.

He blinks, feeling a hit to the gut at the sight of it as instinct clues him into what it is. Eames tries for a smile, but it's a little wobbly. "For you," he tells Granny and hands her the bouquet.

"Oh thank you, boy. Asters, how lovely," she tells him, and rises to fetch a vase. At the table, Arthur is silent, and Ariadne has her arms wrapped protectively around herself. The tension is thick, and Eames stands, rubbing the back of his head, unable to take his eyes from the package.

Finally Arthur speaks. "Julian . . . Jane wants to know."

"I see," he manages, not certain that he does. Shifting, Eames gives a sigh and looks from Arthur to Ariadne. "So. Are we . . . agreed on it?"

Arthur nods in his calm way; Ariadne gives a visible shiver, but she nods too, her happy mood gone. Eames reaches over and strokes her cheek, then turns to his Granny, squaring his shoulders.

"All right then. Arthur, Ari and I are a team, Granny. We work for hire, collecting information for clients about their competitors and enemies. The thing is, the information we extract isn't from their day-to-day lives; it's from their dreams."

There. It's said, and although he knows she'll need more of an explanation than that, it's the truth out in the open for the first time.

No one speaks for a long moment as Granny finishes putting the flowers in water. She sets them on the counter and turns, looking from one face to the other.

"You're corporate spies, then?"

Arthur shrugs. "Yes."

"And you work for businesses? Not the military or the criminals or the terrorists?" Granny asks in that quiet, quiet voice that Eames knows so well. This her most serious tone; the one she uses for praying.

Eames speaks up. "We choose our clients. No military, no criminals or terrorists. Simple corporate espionage."

Granny comes over to the table and sits down. She looks at Ariadne. "You went missing for a third of a _year_, Julian, and this girl's shaking like a leaf. Simple my backside! What sort of business is it that kidnaps people and leaves them starved and shell-shocked?"

"In this business, there are the good and the bad," Arthur tells her slowly. "There are risks, and among them is running into competitors who don't play by our rules, Jane. We were ambushed by those sort."

Granny reaches over to stroke Ariadne's shoulder. "Then they're right bastards, pardon my language."

"That they are," Eames growls in agreement. "And for all we know they're still out there."

"That's the problem," Ariadne finally speaks, her voice slightly shaky. "I'm scared. Scared to go under. I don't know if I _can_, anymore."

"Go under?" Granny asks.

"Dreaming," Eames explains. "Going into a shared Dream. Ari here builds whole worlds in there. Fantastic places, Gran, amazing things. Best architect I've ever worked with."

Granny nods. "And you, boy?"

Eames colors a bit. "Well . . . I'm sort of _anyone_ in a Dream. I can make myself into key figures or important people, to help manipulate the target. And Arthur here, he's a bloody mastermind. Does the planning, does the interrogating—useful man, he is."

"And you do this how, exactly?" Granny looks at the package, "with this?" and Arthur nods.

"In this box is the machine that hooks us all up together so we share the same dream."

They all stare at the package for a long moment, and then Granny speaks, firmly.

"Show me."


	7. Chapter 7

They're on the street; Yusuf's level. It was the easiest to use, they all remembered it, and Ariadne didn't have to whip up anything new. She stands close to him, and Arthur puts his arm around her thin shoulders taking as much comfort as he gives. A little in front of them, Eames and Jane are holding hands. Eames looks pale but smiles; Jane is staring around in clear delight.

"So this is a dream?"

"This is _my _dream for the moment, but Ari's world," Eames clarifies. "She made it, and I get to fill it with people." Arthur hears him tell his grandmother. "It's the easiest for me to change myself when I'm the one doing the dreaming, but I'd rather not right now. Everyone here though, outside of we four are from my thoughts."

And there are people now, moving along the sidewalks, going about their dream lives as usual. Arthur spots some familiar faces; a few Mombassan types turning a corner, a few long-legged blondes chatting as they buy ice cream from a vendor. Against him, Ariadne relaxes fractionally.

"You're okay," he murmurs, and she gives a nod, brushing her hair back.

"Let's walk," she suggests, and Arthur knows that it's a good sign. Moving is good. They stroll along ahead of Eames and Granny, relaxing a bit in the sunshine, turning a corner.

It feels nice to hold Ariadne's hand even if her grip in his is cutting off circulation to his fingers. Arthur makes it a point to keep his grasp gentle. "So, how many times did you have to go over this layout with him before you realized Yusuf was trying to hit on you?" Arthur asks softly.

Ariadne glances up at him, startled. "What?"

"He liked you," Arthur informs her, smirking a bit. "You _did _realize that, right?"

"Not like that!" Ariadne protests, although her expression is thoughtful and slightly amused. "Really?"

"Come on—only Saito and Dom were all business all the time. The rest of us were jockeying for position."

A bit of the old sparkle is back in her eyes. "Is that why you pulled that kiss prank when we were in your dream?"

"Ah that," Arthur clears his throat, going a little pink. "That was a lucky break on my part."

"Um-hmm." Ariadne snorts, not buying it for a moment. "Sure it was."

"Hey, you were damned cute looking all businesslike, with your hair up in a bun," Arthur protests mildly.

"Professional," she snickers. "You really do have a thing for the type, don't you?"

"No comment," Arthur replies, and then suddenly, Rossiter appears before them, taser in hand.

Ariadne gives a sharp yelp, and Arthur feels himself tense in panic. He looks for Eames, but neither he nor Jane are anywhere on the street. Rossiter says nothing but steps forward, eyes as soulless as dark glass.

In a panic now, Ariadne darts and runs; Rossiter goes after her, and without thinking about it, Arthur lunges, tripping the sub.

Rossiter spins, slamming the taser against Arthur's neck, and the sudden jolt is an agonizing clench of burning muscle as Arthur feels himself spasm. His heart races in quick slamming beats, and he scrabbles at Rossiter's shoe, reaching for it, trying to grab as he goes down, elbows hitting the pavement hard.

"E-Eames!" he yells, hoping like hell to be heard as he watches Ariadne bolt up the empty street, Rossiter right behind her.

The gunshot is loud, echoing in the empty intersection, and Arthur sucks in a breath, relieved because Eames is there, Luger in hand, looking intent. As Arthur writhes, the forger stops, braces and shoots towards distant figures.

Granny hurries over to Arthur, bending to help him up, but he just shakes his head, trying to fight the pain, which is expounded by worry about Ariadne. "F-find her!" he begs, and Granny looks up.

"What happened?"

Eames takes off, and Arthur rolls to his hands and knees, trying to calm his breathing. Granny rubs his back. "Relax, Arthur; Julian will find her. What in God's name is happening?"

"Ariadne . . . pulled up a sub . . . unconscious fear projection most likely," Arthur manages, his wheezing dying down. "I didn't know . . . how serious she was . . . about being scared."

Granny helps him up; Arthur's grateful for the assist, and looks around even as he slips an arm around her bony shoulders. "We need to keep moving. If Eames is trying to find her, his subs are going to be . . . agitated. Come on."

-oo00oo-

Ariadne runs, darting through alleys and around corners in a blind panic, only stopping when the stitch in her side forces her to. She ducks behind a dumpster and leans against the concrete wall, fighting to catch her breath. She can feel her heart pounding.

_It's stupid and illogical_, she tries to chastise herself. _This is a DREAM. You can change it! _Ariadne thinks back briefly to all the dreams she's been in; all the terrifying scenarios she's already dealt with in the past.

It's no use, her heart is hammering, and she can't concentrate. Uneasily she looks up, wondering how high she'd have to climb to jump and end it. Footsteps grow louder, and Ariadne flinches, trying to squeeze herself into as small a ball as possible. The sky is darker, and she moans, pushing herself back against the wall.

"Ariadne," comes a voice, and she looks up to see not Rossiter, but Tyro. Much bigger—nearly the size of a bear—but dear sweet Tyro all the same with his dark fur and bright eyes. Relief floods her entire body and she feels the hysteria bubble up, bringing giggles and tears at the same time.

She reaches out her arms.

Tyro trots closer and rubs against her, snuffling up one thigh, curly tail wagging madly. She moves to lightly push his nose away, but the feel of it is wrong, and blinking, Ariadne realizes with shock that it's not Tyro but Eames.

Eames.

Eames forging . . . a dog.

Not just any dog—Tyro.

She bursts into giggles. "What the hell are you DOING?"

Eames rises from his hands and knees easily, brushing them off. "Rescuing you, pet. Gave me a chance to try something I've never done, too. Ready to go?"

"Julian," she begins, looking around nervously. "I think . . . I have a problem. A Cobb sort of problem."

"I know," he tells her easily, holding out a hand and pulling her easily to her feet. "But we'll work on it. Let's go find Arthur and Granny, shall we?"

He stays close to her, and when they retrace her steps, Ariadne feels the hot flush of shame reddening her cheeks. She stays quiet, even when Granny and Arthur catch up to them, all four in a reunion under an awning.

Granny's hands are gnarled and cool on hers. "You're all right then?"

"Yes," Ariadne mumbles, looking from Arthur to Eames. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring him in."

"It happens," Arthur shrugs. "We'll deal with it."

Faintly, the lush strains of _Moonlight Serenade_ begin to fill the air and Eames cocks his head. "Time to go, loves—"

Ariadne wakes with a flinch, looking over the kitchen table to where the rest of them are slowly rousing themselves. Granny peels the Velcro strap off of her wrist and gives a deep sigh, her expression thoughtful and slightly troubled. She moves to make tea.

"I . . . I don't know why he _got_ to me," Ariadne begins quietly, staring at the table. "I mean, he never touched me, or said anything he didn't say to all of us . . . he's dead, I know that."

"Rossiter had us against our will," Arthur mutters, rising up to come over to Ariadne. "Consciously, we can cope with that. Unconsciously, it's not that easy. We all know the mind's a complex place, Ari. There's no need to apologize. Hell, if anyone should apologize, it should be me. You told me you weren't ready and I didn't listen."

"No, no, it's my fault, I tried to push myself-" she argues back, but they're interrupted by Eames' sharp whistle. They look over at him as he packs up the CD player.

"Stop, pets. We'll have tea and pass on the blame game while we figure out what to DO, shall we?"

"The boy is right," Granny murmurs, bringing over cups and setting them around the Pasive. "Faults are for earthquakes, not folk. Who'd like a scone?"

Ariadne nods, feeling both foolish and relieved. Arthur packs away the Pasiv, and comes back to the table as Granny pours. She speaks in her low melodic way. "All right. That was fascinating, in a word. I was quite taken with the entire vista, Ariadne. If I hadn't been told I was dreaming I would have believed I was awake in a real city. And you built it all?"

"Yes," Ariadne murmurs, picking up her cup and taking a welcoming gulp. "It was . . . fun. I loved building it, making it come alive under my fingers."

Granny asks the right questions, and Ariadne answers them, knowing that it's a distraction from the main issue, but appreciating it just the same. There's something soothing in talking about building, something very comforting in answering good questions.

Ariadne is aware of two important things as she finishes her tea: first, that she adores Granny, and secondly, that it's time to call her own mother.

-oo00oo-

In the last three days, Eames makes it a point to be gentle with Ariadne while he confers with Arthur. They're both worried about her, but deadlocked on what to do. Eames thinks therapy is the answer, but Arthur's not so sure.

"It would mean exposing the whole Extraction profession. At the very least we'd be reported to the authorities and at the worst . . ."

"Confidentiality, Arthur. It's the law, you know. And she needs . . . something," Eames points out quietly. "Even Cobb got help, afterwards."

Arthur considers this. They're halfway to London to collect packages and settle business that can't be handled out of Granny's place. Arthur is looking forward to his new suits, Eames knows. It's not that Arthur's vain precisely, but he's got a fair share of clothes horse in his composition.

"So let's ask Dom," comes the reply. "And while we're at it, we'd better check in with Saito too and see how much we owe him for our _own_ damned Extraction."

"Ah," Eames winces. "Not a bill I'm looking forward to, but in the interests of playing fair. How are we set, by the way?"

Arthur has been banker for the three of them since they started working as a trio, and has invested a percentage of their profits. Eames has to admit it's a definite change of pace to have financial security.

"We're doing okay," Arthur nods gruffly. "No serious losses, although I wish I'd been able to move funds around before we got grabbed."

"Easy come, easy go," Eames murmurs, still thinking of Ariadne.

They split up on various errands and come together again at a nice little lunch spot on the way back, a pub with a terrace that overlooks the water. Eames is halfway through his first pint when Arthur walks in.

"Dom gave me a few names," he says quietly, sitting opposite and giving a nod to the waitress. "One's here in London."

"Lucky break," Eames nods. "Now it's a matter of getting the dangerous pixie to go. I doubt it's going to be a simple matter; she does like being the boss." As he says it, an idea jumps to mind.

A very definite idea.

"Yeah, Ari can be . . . stubborn," Arthur agrees with a crooked smile.

"In fact," Eames warms to the idea, "maybe that's part of the problem right there. Her . . . headstrong tendencies."

"Yeah?" Arthur accepts his pint and sips it, still looking over the rim at Eames, who thinks it's a charming sight.

"Our girl's been compensating for her height all her life, Arthur. She's had to make her qualifications and maturity known the hard way, and she certainly put us all in our places from day one, agreed?"

"Agreed," Arthur nods, frowning a bit. "What's your point?"

"Rossiter took away her ability to be in charge. He did it to all of us, granted, but something like that is bound to hit Ari a lot harder. We didn't talk much about it in the Motherland there, but I suspect that our dear girl's been coping by pushing the two of _us _around; not that I mind."

Eames watches Arthur think this over; while he does, Eames takes the liberty of ordering lunch for them both. When the waitress walks away again, Arthur leans forward. "So what you're saying is that Ariadne's been . . . reclaiming her emotional balance by taking charge of . . . us?"

"In a nutshell," Eames nods. "And when she's in a situation where she's not in charge, particularly a fluid and potentially volatile one like Dreaming, she doesn't trust herself enough yet."

"She does with us," Arthur argues.

"That's trust in _us _not herself, love. Frankly, I think she could use a few _more_ opportunities to build herself back up into the headstrong little imp we both know Ariadne can be."

It's fun to watch Arthur ponder this a moment longer, and even more delightful to see realization dawn on his lean features. A hint of blush rises up, and Eames laughs softly at the sight of it. "Just figuring it out now, are you?"

"These . . . opportunities," Arthur begins in his most lovely deadpan way, "you mean sexual ones. Right?"

"Well, those are _your_ words, not mine, but they'll do nicely. Yes, Arthur, I mean erotic encounters that allow our petite creator to build a little faith in her own abilities. You DO have a birthday tomorrow, and I can't think of a nicer present than to have Miss Ariadne Westwood work you over for it."

"Eames," Arthur is shaking his head, but he's licking his lips as well, and his agitation is palpable. "Your grandmother—"

"Will be spending the night in Croydon with her old friend Grace. They're going to some garden show there, and God help us, probably picking up a few more gnomes at the same time. She's been planning it for weeks, so you'll be getting your birthday cake tonight instead of tomorrow."

Eames feels impish now because there's something about watching Arthur struggle with horniness that's funny and arousing at the same time. Arthur is so VERY buttoned-up; more so now that they're back in civilization, so the chance to _un_button him is something Eames is looking forward to.

And given what he's bought for Ariadne to wear, he suspects she'll have fun as well.


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur has never much looked forward to birthdays. It wasn't that his grandparents and aunt ever forgot them, or that he didn't have fond memories of certain birthdays—his twenty-first had been pretty damned spectacular—but in general he keeps them quiet. For one thing, he rarely sees reasons to share the date with anyone, and for another, it's a reminder of time moving on. Time ticking away another year in that slow relentless way.

This year is different, and that's clear from the thickly frosted home-made cake created by Granny to the small but thoughtful collection of presents that she, Ariadne, and Eames bring to him as well.

Gold cufflinks in tasteful fleur-de -lis pattern from Granny that will go perfectly with his new shirts and suits. He thanks her quietly, touched that she's taken the time to get just the right ones. Ariadne presents him with a bottle of his favorite aftershave, Cheval Noir, and Eames comes through with a pair of exquisite Italian loafers in butter-soft mahogany leather.

"Thought you'd like a pair you didn't have to share," Eames smirks, and Arthur has to smirk back, appreciating the joke.

They see Granny off at sunset when Grace picks her up. Grace Meyer is a strong stout woman in her fifties and it's clear she and Granny have been friends for years. After kisses and promises to call and check in, Granny and Grace head off in the their Lexus, leaving Ariadne, Arthur and Eames standing in the front garden as the air grows chilly and the inviting twilight begins to steal across the land.

Arthur feels a low tingle of anticipation in his belly, particularly when Ariadne shoots him a knowing little smile. She comes over and looks up at him, cocking her head. "We're going out, Mr. Brewster," she tells him. "Wear something nice." Then she heads inside.

"Out?" visions of a quiet night curled up together at home alone vanish, and he looks to Eames, who nods.

"Oh we don't argue with the boss, Arthur. Miss Westwood is very . . . strict."

Arthur blinks. "Strict?"

"Very," Eames murmurs with mock-solemnity. "You and I, we're just her personal assistants you know. Best to keep her happy."

It takes a moment, but he's quick enough to catch on, and Arthur feels his dimples deepen. "Keep her happy, huh?"

"You're better at it than I am," Eames mournfully announces. "She loves you best. Come on, let's get dressed; mustn't keep the evil one waiting."

Two hours later they're all seated at an upscale Italian restaurant, dressed to the nines and Arthur is very aware that Ariadne looks hot. To everyone else the prim grey business suit and tightly bunned hair showcase a young and upwardly mobile business woman, a young entrepreneur perhaps, or accounting chief. Her makeup is light and perfect, her attitude is formal. If there is one indulgence, it's in the shiny black pumps she wears, which have nearly three inches and make her petite legs looks wonderful.

Arthur is enthralled, aroused and very curious.

Next to him, Eames is nearly unrecognizable in a dark charcoal suit, pinstripe shirt and a tie of soft blue. His hair is neatly combed, he's shaved and his expression is almost serious, if not for the hint of a twinkle in his eyes.

And there's himself, decked out in the newest suit he owns, a three-piece in rich chocolate, with a contrasting vest of cream and gold paisley finished with a dark gold silk tie. Arthur knows he looks good in it; he's never thought of himself as handsome, but he does know how to dress.

"All right, gentlemen, this is on the company tab, so order what you'd like," Ariadne purrs at them across the table. "We're going to be working through the night, so you'll need the calories."

"Yes, Miss Westwood," Eames rumbles back politely. "So we'll be spending the night together?"

Arthur can't help a pang of desire when Ariadne purses her pretty red mouth and replies, "I'm afraid so, Mr. Eames. We'll be dealing with some pretty hard issues that will need to be handled just right for a satisfying outcome."

Judging by the way Eames shifts in his seat, Arthur suspects he's as aroused as he is. They all look up when the waitress comes over, and it's clear from the start that Ariadne is taking charge, ordering quickly and confidently; an oyster appetizer and calamari for the main dish, then shooting him a look that dares him to make a comment on the salacious nature of her meal.

Arthur holds her gaze, loving the way the candlelight gleams against the curve of her cheek; the way her dark eyes glow with womanly impishness.

-oo00oo-

She hasn't had this much_ fun_ in a long time. Ariadne has always prided herself on being level-headed and practical, but sometimes just giving in to the impulse to play is worth it. Both Julian and Arthur are looking incredible right now, and the knowledge that both of them are hers to tease and play with is sending hot shivers between her thighs.

Ariadne delicately downs an oyster off the half-shell, aware of both men gazing at her while she does so. She sets the shell down and licks her bottom lip, grateful that the lipstick is smudge-proof and manages a smirk.

Eames clears his throat. "Well done, Miss Westwood."

"I've been swallowing for years," Ariadne murmurs, turning to catch Arthur's stunned gaze. His pupils are dark, and there's a small trickle of sweat just at the edge of his hairline.

"I bet you bloody well have," Eames mutters in a sotto voice that she barely hears.

Ariadne suppresses her grin and reaches over to lay cool fingers on the back of Arthur's hand. She lets herself caress it, touching the strong tendons there. "You feel warm, Mr. Brewster. I should get you in bed."

Arthur twitches at that, ever so slightly, but Ariadne keeps her gaze on his. He smolders so nicely.

"I thought we had work to do," Arthur banters back dryly.

"Only if you're up for it," Ariadne manages a straight face. "I'd hate to ride you if you're uncomfortable."

It's lovely to see Arthur blush, it truly is. He's so stoic and dry most of the time that any uncontrollable reaction is a feather in her cap, and both he and Ariadne know it.

"Miss Westwood, I'm ready to go anytime you are," Arthur assures her in his deep voice.

Ariadne feels a quick spasm of desire flicker low in her belly; to counter it, she picks up another oyster. "Bottoms up."

It's enough to make Eames give a little whimper, which is good enough for her.

They don't linger, or consider dessert once dinner is done, and Ariadne strides out, trying not to let the weakness in her knees make her unsteady. The lightness in her bones, all though her chest makes her a little breathless, and this time it's more than just desire that has her giddy.

It's seeing, _feeling _the gentle gift from Eames and Arthur in the way they defer to her without condescension or self-consciousness. Both of them are hanging on her every word and gesture, and the rush of power that it gives her is as strong as liquor.

This isn't really playing anymore; Ariadne senses that despite a surface agreement, under it all lies an intimate hunger for precisely this: her assertion, their compliance.

It's going deeper into this relationship.

In the dark of the back seat, Ariadne slowly runs her hand up and down along Arthur's thigh just to feel the long muscles of his leg and how they tense at her touch. She can't see his face well; it's merely a profile under quick bursts of light that the streetlamps make, but those flashes are enough to see his eyes are closed in pleasure.

She leans against Arthur, rolling her hips a little in a wriggle she can't quite control as the anticipation builds. "I'd like you under me, Mr. Brewster," Ariadne sighs upward into his ear, "Following my direct instructions. Is this a position you'd be interested in?"

He fights a groan and turns his face to hers, his gaze dark and tender. "Very."

Eames pulls into the driveway and slithers out, tugging open the doors and helping Ariadne climb out. She stands in her wicked shoes, flashing him a smile of pure mischief because he looks so eager to please.

"Mr. Eames, we're going to need your input tonight."

"Yes, Miss Westwood. I'd be happy to be of service," Eames rumbles sweetly. "Put me to work."

"We're going somewhere we won't be disturbed," Ariadne replies. "I'd like you to show some cooperative spirit by giving me your tie."

"Ooooohhh," he breathes softly, tugging on the knot and letting the length of silk whip from around his collar. "Yes ma'am."

-oo00oo-

Eames is so close to going out of his mind that he's not sure if he's sane at the moment, but it's a lovely sensation. The heady atmosphere in the bedroom has an unworldly feel to it right now, and thanks to the wine they've had with dinner, everything is languid.

Arthur is stretched out on the new bed—and stretched is the best way to describe him, really, now that he's got his wrists tied to the bedposts—and Eames is lying next to him, lightly running a hand across his lover's bare stomach. The muscles there tense, but Arthur doesn't look at him; Arthur is focused on Ariadne, who is neatly taking off her skirt in slow deliberation, sliding it from her trim hips. She steps out of it and the sight of her half-dressed now, in blouse and jacket above, and pale pink satin garter belt and stocking below is delicious.

"Business casual," She smirks, and runs a hand along the front of one thigh. "Is this _too_ casual for you, Mr. Brewster?"

Eames admires the serious tenting of Arthur's boxers.

"N-no," Arthur growls, his voice thick. "Jesus."

Eames lightly skitters his fingers up along Arthur's chest, enjoying the heated skin, and feeling a rush of joy. "Language, darling."

"It's all right, Mr. Eames," Ariadne breaks in gently. She crawls up on the mattress, and slithers herself along until she's on her hands and knees over Arthur's supine body, smiling down into his face. "I know Mr. Brewster has a naughty mouth."

She scoots up, brushing over his erection and making Arthur shudder. "In fact, he needs to use that mouth to undo a few buttons here . . ."

Eames drinks in the sight of Arthur rapidly nipping at Ariadne's jacket with surprising dexterity, white teeth flashing as he manages to open it. From this point of view, Eames loves that he can see Ariadne's pert apple of an ass sweetly framed by the stockings and belt.

Helpfully he reaches between Arthur and Ariadne's bodies, tugging at the boxers and freeing Arthur's erection. From the sound of the groan, the point man is definitely grateful.

Ariadne giggles and grinds against Arthur, but she lifts her face towards Eames and kisses him, her hair starting to escape from its bun.

And after that, things flow into a tight little circle of erotic focus that leaves Eames lost in the taste of his lovers. Arthur's nipples, Ariadne's stomach, the heat and salt of damp skin linger under his tongue, and it dawns on him that he's one lucky son of a bitch and no mistake. Their kisses are so different; their bodies a joy to play with and fondle and explore. By the time Ariadne is kneeling between Arthur's knees, her mouth teasing his cock, Eames himself is aching at the sight.

"Oh darlings," he breathes, "You're so lovely . . ."

All Arthur can manage to do is pant, his nostrils flaring as Eames nips along his sweaty ribcage. He glares at Eames, eyes dark with lust just on the edge of mindlessness. "Gonna come," Arthur announces in a husky helpless growl, hips rocking up with every slow dip of Ariadne's head. Eames watches as the sinewy muscles of Arthur's arms tense against his bonds, sees the man close his eyes and grunt as he climaxes in hard, wild thrusts. It's a moment of passion and vulnerability, mixing the basic thrill of sex with a rare touch of pure joy.

Then Ariadne gives a choking laugh, managing to swallow and snort at the same time, and they're all reduced to chuckles.

"All right, Mr. Eames, just for that-" Ariadne waggles her ass as she pounces, dropping her slight frame on top of Arthur. "Do me from behind."

"What?" This is from Arthur, who lifts his head up, looking dazed. "On _top _of me?"

Eames gives a happy moan and shifts with alacrity, moving behind Ariadne and toying with her garter belt. "I have your back, Miss Westwood, and believe me, it's going to be my _pleasure,"_ he manages to whisper as his hands slide up her ass.

"Yes," Ariadne says to both of them smugly. "It's _your_ birthday Arthur, but _I'm_ in charge."

All Arthur manages at that point is a pleasured growl, and then Eames thrusts slickly into Ariadne, and nobody is able to talk much. Ariadne is slick and her cleft is so very tight that Eames can't hold out for long, not that he wants to. He tries to slow himself and reaches around her hip, but she's already rubbing herself and breathing hard, so Eames gives himself over to the rising heat of his own impending orgasm, stroking hard into her, fingers locked onto her hipbones.

The molten pleasure surges through his cock, and Eames rides out the waves, his roar muffled against Ariadne's shoulderblade. Dimly he feels legs wrap around him, and realizes they're Arthur's, locking to make a lovely sandwich of Ariadne, which is a silly image, but feels so very, very good.

Afterwards, they shower together, a tight fit, but the warm sweetness of soaping each other up and sharing kisses under the hot water is nearly perfect. Ariadne peels back the coverlet, and they tumble into bed on the new sheets, sleepily piling together in a lover's knot of entangled arms and legs.

Arthur gives a deep, happy sigh. "I want this for my birthday next year."

"Mmmmm," Ariadne agrees sleepily. "That can be arranged, Mr. Brewster."

"I'll clear the agenda," Eames agrees through a yawn. "Annual reviews are SO important."

They sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

They can't stay with Jane much longer. Arthur has come to that rueful realization well-ahead of Eames and Ariadne, and breaking the news to them will be difficult. But given the amount of traffic, both internet and physical that is now beating a path to their doors, it's all too clear to the point man that they need their own secure place that isn't going to attract attention, and isn't going to put the elderly woman in danger.

He also knows he needs to talk to Jane herself first, so on Sunday Arthur goes with her to church, leaving Ariadne and Eames to sleep in and/or do whatever else occurs to them.

St. Pancras is a small little place, with a congregation well up in years, but clearly loved and well-cared for. He and Jane are welcomed in, and settle in one of the dark wooden pews. She bends forward to pray, her arthritic hands folding gracefully, and Arthur feels a rush of affection for her, deep and strong.

He closes his eyes respectfully and lets the sanctuary give him peace.

The service is formal but not unfamiliar; Jane gives him little cues to help him know when to rise and kneel and sit. Arthur is amused when it becomes clear that the topic of the sermon is 'Love your Neighbor As Yourself,' and he sees that Jane is smirking a bit as well. When it's time for Communion, he stays in the pew, letting Jane go up to the altar railing herself.

Arthur sighs. Religion—organized religion—isn't something that's ever been a major part of his life. He's respectful concerning other people's right to believe and practice what they want, but when it comes down to his own soul, he falls into the agnostic camp.

Still, seeing the serenity in Jane's expression makes Arthur smile, and when they leave church, he feels more at peace than he's been in a while. Jane smiles and directs him down a few streets to a little tea shop that overlooks a park.

"Claytons. They do a lovely little tea there, and you look like you need a moment, Arthur," she tells him.

"How do you always know?" he asks, half-jokingly, because he's beginning to think Jane is some sort of psychic.

"I know because I've been on the planet as long as I have," Jane murmurs in complete confidence. "When you're my age, you've generally learned to read people fairly well."

They step into the shop and a girl takes them to a charming booth, where Arthur helps Jane in, then sits opposite her, feeling slightly nervous. Jane settles her napkin into her lap, then looks up and winks at him.

He smirks back, taking up the menu from the table and glancing at it.

"What would you like?"

"Breakfast tea, and a raspberry scone, thank you," Jane replies lightly. When the waitress comes, Arthur relays the order, adding a cup of coffee and a bagel as well. Once they're alone again, he gives Jane a rueful smile.

"Jane, as wonderful as it is staying with you-" he begins, but Jane reaches across the table and takes his hand. Her gnarled fingers are cool but strong, her grip firm.

"—you've got to leave. I suspected as much, and given what you three do for a living it's no surprise," she finishes with a twisted smile of her own. "I'm rather used to it with Julian, but it's never been easy to let him go, and now that I know you two as well . . ."

"I wish like hell we didn't have to," he tells her honestly. "It's been very good for all of us here. Eames is happy, and Ariadne's sleeping better, and I . . . I like the quiet," Arthur trails off.

Jane's eyes are bright. "Home is as much a 'who' as a 'where,' Arthur."

He looks at her, taking in the soft lines on her face, the quiet serenity in her gaze. "You're right. It's something I never knew before, but you're right."

"Of course I am," she chuckles. "Very well then, so where will the three of you go? In your line of work I'm sure travel is a big part of it, so you'll want to be close to an airport most likely. You and Ariadne are rather the ex-patriates, so I don't expect you'll be going back to America just yet either."

"Probably something on the Continent," Arthur agrees. "Paris is one hub for connections of our kind, and so are Morocco and Hong Kong."

Jane makes a face. "Not Morocco, Arthur; much too close to all the political unrest, and the heat would just about *melt* Ari!"

"I hadn't planned on living in the city itself, but you're right," he concedes with a nod. "I'm not much interested in north Africa anyway. I figure we'd find some place north of Paris probably, since we're all pretty fluent."

"True," Jane murmurs. The waitress returns with the breakfast, and for a moment Arthur and Jane settle in to sip and nibble before Jane speaks up quietly. "But that will take some planning, and all sorts of legalities that I know complicate matters. I have an idea that would help, Arthur dear."

"Yes?" Arthur replies curiously.

Jane smiles, and lays out her plan.

-00oo00-

Ariadne steps through the doors and looks around, searching for a familiar face, but before she's even started, a woman comes charging over, arms held out, smile wide. "Angel!"

"Mom," Ariadne sighs, and relaxes as her mother enfolds her in a deep long hug. She pulls back and studies the woman just as her mother does the same thing, the two of them mirroring each other.

She hasn't changed, Ariadne notes, feeling a rush of relief. Same silver hair cropped boyishly short, same soft lines and wrinkles, same slightly pre-occupied expression behind half moon glasses. Doctor Terpsichore Westwood, renowned archeologist, leading authority on Greek antiquities and worried mother stares at her daughter, and immediately presses a hand to Ariadne's forehead. "You look tired. Are you tired, darling?"

"A little," Ariadne agrees, knowing any denial will prolong the probing. "Let's get a table."

"Let's," comes the easy agreement. "Coffee would be good, and maybe some cookies while you tell me what on _earth's_ been going on with you for the last half a year. Honestly, Ariadne, I call Paris, I call your father; nobody seems to know where you've been."

Ariadne fights the urge to roll her eyes; instead she follows her mother to a little booth set in an alcove, where their conversation can stay private. She settles in and looks across at her mother, who is staring at her cautiously.

"I can't get over how long you've let your hair grow," Terpsichore murmurs. "I thought you didn't like it long."

"Honestly mom, I haven't thought about it much," Ariadne replies tersely.

They stare at each other a moment longer, then Terpsichore reaches across the table and takes her daughter's small hands into her own, gripping them tightly. Ariadne blinks back the tears that threaten to fall.

"All right, my little Minos princess, spill. Where have you _been_? The last time I spoke to you, you were all excited about some off-site project for that professor of topology. I don't hear from you for two months, but I figure you're busy, whatever. And then when I DO call, the number's been disconnected! So naturally I try to reach your school and your father, but nobody seems to have any information. I'm at my wit's end, which isn't that long a trip, but by the time I decide to speak to the authorities in Paris, I'm told that the investigation into your disappearance is being handled by a private security out of Saito Corporation!"

This is familiar, and Ariadne grins at the sight of her mother, puffed up and indignant, her chin stubbornly set. It's the look that bureaucrats fear and curators pale before, and never has it seemed more wonderful.

"Mom, I was kidnapped by corporate spies, held in the northern part of Russia for several months, escaped and holed up near Finland for the winter, and escaped with the help of mercenaries. Oh, and I'm in deeply in love with two men who also love each other," Ariadne rolls out quickly. "You still like espresso, right?"

Her mother blinks. "Yeesss," comes her slightly dazed drawl.

Ariadne waves to the passing waitress, delivers the order, and looks back at her mother, who seems to have recovered somewhat, and is playing with her napkin.

"Finland?" comes the question. "At _this_ time of year? Sweetheart, we both know you don't like the cold! What _were_ you thinking?"

"It was the closest country!" Ariadne splutters. "We didn't have much of a choice, mom!"

"Yes, well if those two _really_ loved you, they would have arranged getting to say, Belize, or St. Tropez," Terpsichore sniffs. "Unless of course, they're Finnish themselves."

"They're not. Arthur's American and Julian's British," Ariadne mutters. "And did you miss the parts about being _kidnapped_ and _escaping?"_

Her mother nods. "No I did not; give me a moment to process all this, please."

Ariadne takes a deep breath. It's always been like this with her mother. This woman is amazing, and to the rest of the world, a renowned expert and scholar, but to Ariadne, Terpsichore Westwood is stubborn, infuriating, loving and strong. In short; a mother—HER mother through and through.

"So. My lovely, clean-cut graduate student of architecture has gone from a final thesis project in Paris to being kidnapped to Russia, escaping, and now is in an international ménage a trois? I think I may need something slightly stronger than espresso to get through _this_ tale, sweetheart."

"Mom," Ariadne grins, "Did I mention there's a dog, too?"

-00oo00-

The one thing Eames hates about himself is that he's sentimental. He's tried for years to deny it; to cover it over with his own brand of cynical wit and cold-blooded practicality. Most of the time the subterfuge works, and Eames has the scars to prove it.

Cool, raffish, and charming; that's all Eames wants to present to the world, and generally he does. He's been shot at, wined and dined, cursed, seduced, betrayed and through it all, Julian Eames has landed on his feet time after time, accountable only to himself.

Until now. Until that damned sentimentality within comes out with every kiss shared with Ariadne, or every careless caress by Arthur's long, elegant hands. Eames can't fight the easy way his lovers call forth his inner soft devotion, and it makes him laugh at himself in the mirror every day. Two lovers, each amazing, each wonderful.

Eames hopes it's no dream. He found himself a new totem as soon as he could, and even then Eames can't be sure he's awake at any given moment. The weight of the poker chip is a definable amount, a precise measurement yes, but it's no true gauge of reality, and until proven otherwise, Julian Eames chooses on faith to believe that he's awake.

Reality is tricky, and changing it requires much more effort than changing things in a dream. Knowing this, Eames finds himself standing outside Rothmann and Sons, squinting into the window at the glittering bands wedged into black velvet holders.

_Sapphires and amethysts and pearls_, he remembers promising. Three stones associated with dreaming. One for each of them, Eames considers, and the idea—which had been a grand whimsy before—now seems plausible.

He pushes open the shop door and takes a breath, drinking in the scents of polished wood and old money. The shop is empty, quiet in the way a temple is, or a library; a hush that reminds Eames to keep his voice low.

An elderly man glides out from some back room, hawk-beaked and elegant in a dark suit. He looks up at Eames and brightens. "Yes sir, may I be of assistance?"

"I'm . . . I'm looking for rings," Eames tells him.

"Very good, sir," comes the warm reply. "I'm Seaton, and I'd be happy to help you make your selections. A matching set, I suppose?"

"Not quite a set," Eames mutters, feeling an urge to backpedal to the door, "More of a . . . triad, really."

To his credit, Seaton doesn't even blink an eye. "Congratulations, sir. Did you have any particular stones or settings in mind?"

"Sapphires, amethysts and pearls."

"Let me see what we have," Seton says, and disappears into the back again, leaving Eames to himself once more. He considers slipping out, but some stubborn part—that sentimental core of his—won't let him.

When Seaton returns, he's carrying a small velvet-covered tray filled with sparkling stones. "If I may, sir—we offer a variety of cuts for sapphires and amethysts, with baguette and cabochon among the most popular for gentlemen. Pearls are either cultured to buttons or drop-shaped in rings, however, Rothmann and Sons are up to the challenge of _any _preference you may have."

Eames looks more closely at Seaton, and he smiles at the man, feeling a rush of amusement. "I bet you are."

An hour later, Eames basks in the unexpected thrill of choosing rings, and although none of the selections were easy, they're all perfect.

Platinum, all of them. Sapphire for Arthur, amethyst for himself, and for Ariadne, a pearl, flanked by sapphires and amethysts.

"This is it," Eames announces. "All three. I'll take them now."

"Sir," Seaton murmurs quietly, "They'll need to be fitted . . . unless you know the sizes already?"

Eames squints, looking down at his own big hands, thinking hard. It's only a second before he pulls up the exact memory and grins. "Arthur's easy—his ring size is one smaller than my own. And Ariadne . . . her ring finger is just about the size of the first joint of my pinkie."

"Just so," Seaton murmurs, slipping a sizer on Eames' pinkie. "Which is to say a size four. We can have them ready in two hours if speed is essential, sir."

Eames nods, "Yes, thanks. You've been a great help, Seaton. A man who knows his stones."

"Thank you sir; it's nice to be appreciated," Seaton murmurs, smiling gently.

After settling up, which clears out a considerable chunk of his savings, Eames makes arrangements to pick up the rings in a few hours and saunters down the street, looking for a bar, and wondering if he and Arthur should pool a stag night, or simply get Ariadne to jump out of a cake.

He feels giddy; it's a big fucking commitment he's just stepped into here, a serious one, none of this weekend fatherhood single dad business.

This _definitely_ calls for a celebratory pint to settle his nerves.


End file.
